Even Heroes Bleed
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a war hero. More importantly, he is Steve Roger's hero. But even heroes bleed. -An introspective of both Steve and Bucky's inner thoughts during TFA and TWS and beyond. Gets a little dark in places.- (Rated for mild language and violence) Non-slash. -Reviews are loved and appreciated :D -
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note: I'll be uploading this story in chunks. Stay tuned :)**_

_**Part 1**_

* * *

Bucky Barnes has always been superhuman as far as Steve Rogers is concerned.

It has never occurred to Steve, not once, before Agent Carter tells him the fate of the 107th, that Bucky could really be in danger over here. Somehow, no matter how many casualties he's seen, he can't help but picture Bucky just leisurely plowing through the enemy; like he plowed through the local bullies whenever they dared try to jump his best friend. It has never occurred to him that Bucky could really be hurt. … Could be killed.

It has never occurred to him that Bucky might not come home - not until he hears the words 'what's left of the 107th'- and the awful reality that he might never see his best friend again crashes down on top of him.

The idea that anything could get the better of Bucky Barnes is unthinkable, but he finds himself thinking it all the same. It is jarring and shakes his world at the roots. He takes off through the rain, Peggy at his heels.

He has to know.

* * *

The colonel isn't happy to see either of them. Then again, where Steve is involved, he never has been. He's not surprised that Colonel Phillips hates him. He would too in the colonel's position, he supposes. What is Steve Rogers to him, but a dancing monkey in a stupid costume? All that time and trouble to create a super-powered army, and one enormous schmuck in tights is all he gets?

He asks for the name. Just one. He just needs to hear that Bucky is ok and maybe the blood will stop pounding in his ears. His voice is steady but he's half a millimeter from screaming inside. The colonel is focused on Carter, but Steve interjects. He pushes his luck. He has to know.

He thinks he hears some real regret when Phillips says "I'm sorry", but it's not good enough.  
It takes all of a moment to make up his mind, staring at Bucky's condolence letter in the colonel's hands. If they won't mount a rescue, he _will._ Bucky is a hero. He is Steve's hero. Somehow, he'll be alright. Steve just has to find him.

They tell him that Barnes is dead. There's no hope. But they don't know that. Nobody does.

He has to know.  
He just has to.


	2. Chapter 2

He listens with half an ear as Peggy briefs him over the noise of the plane engines. He knows she won't try to talk him out of this, and he's grateful. Peggy's a smart, tough woman, and he doesn't know if he'd ever have made it this far without her. He makes a mental note to tell her so when this is over. He also owes her the mother of all thank-yous, he recalls.

When gunfire rocks the plane he jumps out without a moment's hesitation, even over Peggy's protests.  
He likes to think she won't punch him like she punched Hodge, the next time he sees her... though she just might after he pulled his imaginary rank like that. He supposes he'll let her if she decides to.  
After everything she's risked getting him here, she deserves it.

He watches over his shoulder as the plane banks sharply away and beats a hasty retreat. Peggy might not like it, but Howard at least is willing to high-tail it out of there. Steve's grateful for that. Like hell he's taking Carter and Stark with him if this goes badly.

His parachute deploys, spreading bright crimson across the sky like a beacon. He hopes it will draw fire away from the plane until the others are safely away.

He mentally begs Bucky to hang on as he drifts towards the ground. Help is coming.

* * *

He lands hard among the trees, and detaches from the chute with some difficulty. He can't focus. His mind is far away, in Brooklyn, and it's not coming back willingly.

* * *

From the time they met, Bucky Barnes has always been his protector. He's never seen Bucky afraid, never seen him weak. None of the things that routinely knocked Steve flat on his ass even seem to phase Barnes. Bucky is never sick. The bullies flee when he arrives, and he always seems to know just where he's needed.

Bucky is charming, strong, and sure. He's everything Steve aspires to be, but never will. Bucky is the pillar to which Steve anchors his world.

He doesn't know what he'll do if that pillar gives way.

* * *

Finding the compound proves to be easy - easier in fact than he'd dared to hope. Not only is it the only building for miles, but every road in the area points straight to it. Better, it seems he's landed in a dead zone between guard posts. He takes advantage of this while he can. They'll be searching the area for him, and he needs to be long gone before they get here. He leaves the chute tangled in the trees where it is. He won't be needing it again anyway.

Branches slap against his shins as he scrabbles through the brush and fallen trees, as quietly and carefully as he's able. He keeps to the thickest patches of trees, keeping his head down, until a convoy of trucks rumbles distantly around a turn in the road. He's not likely to get a better opportunity than this.

When the last truck passes, he sprints to it, rolling inside. The two soldiers waiting there lunge at him but he's not about to let them slow him down after coming this far.  
He doesn't want to kill them - still doesn't like the idea of blood on his hands- but he can't let them raise the alarm. He's fairly sure they won't be causing him any more trouble, though, when he tosses the two unconscious figures out the back of the truck into the dirt. By the time they come to, the convoy will be long gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The longer he moves undetected, the more he expects everything to fall apart at any moment. He keeps expecting a bullet to the back of the head, or someone to spot him and raise the alarm.

He keeps expecting something to go wrong, but before he knows it, he's inside the compound, tugging a ring of keys off the belt of the masked guard that he's just cold-cocked, and directing the newly freed prisoners to a rendezvous point outside. He can't believe his luck until he realizes that Bucky's not among them.

The men tell him that there's only one place anyone else could be, assuming his friend's still alive. A lab, called 'the isolation ward', where prisoners are sometimes taken, but never come back. He isn't sure if he's hoping Bucky's there or praying that he isn't. Either way, he's not giving up until he's sure.

He has to know.

* * *

He's about to take off after the short, fat man in the hallway when he hears it. He's not sure if the startled looking man is a prisoner or an enemy, but he's planning to interrogate him either way. The man will have information, and he needs that if he's going to have any chance of rescuing survivors here.

But the weary, pained groan that echoes weakly from the doorway as he passes stops him in his tracks. Somebody in there needs help; the short man will have to wait. He ducks cautiously into the room.

For a moment, he thinks he imagined the noise. There's nobody here. Then he hears it again, and he could cry with relief. A thin voice muttering in the empty lab.  
He knows that voice.

"Sergeant… 32557241…"

The voice cracks, straggling through the rest of its recitation with practiced weariness, as Steve abandons caution and crosses the room in half a stride. He makes straight for the source: a rough wooden table, surrounded by bizarre medical equipment and surgical implements. Strapped tightly down to the surface, delirious and emaciated- "...James... B-Buchanan...Barnes…"

* * *

It won't be until later -hours later, in fact- that the knowledge that Bucky's eyes were blank and his face uncomprehending until Steve shook him and shouted his name will sink in.

He worries, but tells himself that Bucky will be alright, because it's Bucky. Bucky is always alright. Nothing breaks Bucky Barnes. Nothing _can_.

It isn't until much later still that the weight of how wrong he was and the cost of his own ignorance will truly hit home.


	4. Chapter 4

"Bucky…"  
The figure in the dying firelight rolls over to look at him a little too quickly. There is no illusion that he has been resting. He's too exhausted to pretend anymore. Not with Steve.  
It's a sharp change from the bravado of the night before. Bucky looks raw and worn. His eyes are heavy and red around the edges.  
Steve opens his mouth, but his voice fails him.

Words just won't come... and Bucky's eyes are silently begging him not to ask. Not to make him relive it.  
_Please, Steve. Don't._  
He's always been able to read Bucky like a book, and he doesn't like what he sees. He can't bring himself to hurt his friend anymore than he already is. He's never wanted to see Bucky in pain and now that he has, he can't think of anything more horrible.

His courage abruptly deserts him. He takes the coward's way out.  
"You… you need anything?"

"I'm ok." Bucky croaks out.  
It's an obvious lie, but Steve says nothing, just nods.

Bucky blinks up at him wearily for a moment, then slowly rolls onto his back. He breathes out, long and strained and tired. He hugs his arms across his chest like he's trying to ward off a persistent chill. Maybe he is. Steve shrugs out of his battered leather jacket and spreads it over Bucky's shoulders but there's no reaction.

Bucky just lies there, breathing slowly and deliberately, staring up at nothing. Steve can't tell if he still remembers there's anyone else present or not.

All he can tell is that Bucky's avoiding closing his eyes now. He has been since the nightmares started two days ago. It's like he's afraid he'll forget to open them. Afraid he'll dream.

Much as he hates to admit it, Steve's afraid too.

Bucky's a mess. They both know it. But he doesn't know what to say, what to do. He's never seen his friend like this.  
Even when he was staggering drunk, Bucky had never looked so unsteady… so lost.  
He's not sure anymore how much of Bucky he really retrieved in that lab and the notion sits heavy in his chest.

His hero is broken, and he has no idea how to put him back together again.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky is a good soldier, but he is far from a model patient.

He is adamantly against being 'babied' as he calls it, though he's swaying on his feet by the time they finally reach the camp.

Steve had tried to hand him up into a truck to rest more than once, but Bucky had refused to take up a space on either the tank or their commandeered trucks. He remained obstinately certain some other guy must need it more, no matter how much he stumbled when he walked. With so many wounded and weakened men in the company, nobody had the energy to really argue the point with him.

As long as he stays on his feet, the guys who can't will take priority.

* * *

By the time they reach the army camp, Bucky is really and truly ready to pass out; but true to form, he marches doggedly just to Steve's left, ready for trouble. There isn't much he can really do about Steve's potential upcoming court-martial, but if Steve knows Bucky - and he does- he's pretty sure Buck will try anyway. He's equally sure that Bucky thinks he's convinced everyone that he's alright.

Steve knows that isn't true.

His best friend stumbling and shivering and mumbling to himself under his breath? The muffled whimpering at night, hissing with phantom pains in the dark?

That's hard to miss.

But Bucky doesn't want to talk about it. He deflects when Steve asks what happened, and he gets downright mutinous if anyone tries to pull rank and force him onto a transport. Steve tried this only once. Bucky went, but it was glaring daggers. He doesn't try to do it again.

Steve ends up having to let Bucky alone. He has a responsibility to lead these men back to safety and there is more than enough to focus on with that alone. He has no choice but to let Bucky slip onto the back burner for now.

* * *

They are shoulder to shoulder when Colonel Phillips comes to meet the weary company at the camp gates. He can feel Bucky's defiant gaze locking onto the senior officer without even turning his head. Bucky's 'protect Steve from bullies' mode is actively engaged and Steve knows from experience how very ugly this could potentially get, his friend's thin-stretched strength aside.

Maybe it's Bucky unsteady and threatening glare. Maybe it's the solidly united trail of POWs just behind him, all following Captain America. Maybe it's the silly uniform. Maybe it's all three.  
One way or the other, Steve not only goes unpunished, but at Bucky's lead, the camp explodes into cheering for him; for his stupidly unorthodox rescue. He's bewildered by the attention.  
Nobody has ever cheered for him before… except maybe Bucky. He's never been anybody's hero. Peggy's looking at him like he's just walked on water, and for once, he feels like he's the man he always dreamed of being.  
It's a moment he wants to share the moment with his best friend. That's when he realizes he can't find him.

He looks around, surrounded by a sea of cheering faces - but none of them are Bucky Barnes. It takes him a while to realize that Buck has receded to the far edge of the crowd, barely keeping his feet. That a medic is quietly guiding him away. He catches a glimpse of Bucky's face, glancing back at him before they vanish into the infirmary tent.

* * *

Bucky's still there two weeks later and he's getting twitchy. He can stand, can walk. He insists that he's fine, but no one is really listening. He hates sitting there feeling sorry for himself when as best anyone can tell him, there isn't anything wrong with him.

More importantly, the doctors ask a lot of questions. Some questions he doesn't want to answer, but most of them he simply can't. He doesn't remember. That sets everyone, including him, even more on edge.

He stays in the infirmary tent, despite grumbled protests. He might not like his orders, but he's still a soldier. He doesn't get much choice in the matter.

After his first visit, they order Steve to stay away. Bucky might not show any more physical signs of illness, but he still needs to rest and Steve's presence generates too much excitement among the wounded and the staff. He's distracting the nurses, if nothing else.

Steve tries to understand. He hates it, but he does as he's told. Against his instincts, he stays away, though he wants badly to see Bucky through this. He wants to be the lifeline for his friend that Bucky had always been for him when they were kids... when all they had was each other.

He finds it deeply unfair that when Bucky needs him the most, he can't be there.


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky has finally been cleared to leave the infirmary. The shivering and mumbling are gone, but there's still something jarring and offset about him, even now. He's more serious, quieter than Steve thinks he's ever seen him. When Bucky smiles, and it isn't often, -even when he grins like a damned fool the way he used to- there's something small, forced, and sad about it. His expansiveness, his warmth… it's all just dimmed somehow.  
Something Steve can't quite put his finger on is just _wrong_.

He tells himself that Bucky is just restless from inaction. His pride is hurt from having to sit in an infirmary when he he looked and felt fine. Bucky just needs something to distract him, make him feel strong and useful again. He just needs action and he'll be back to himself.

When Colonel Phillips mentions forming a squadron, Steve sees a chance and he takes it. They need a crack team who can find and destroy HYDRA. Steve has a few guys in mind, but there's only one he really needs a 'yes' from.  
Bucky is already the best sniper the US Army has to offer; he's tough, reliable, and proven. He's also the one man on earth that Steve would trust his life to without a second thought.

There is never a question in his mind that if Bucky wants to be a Howling Commando, he will be.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky's drunk. ...Or at least he should be.

He's had probably a dozen shots of whiskey in the last hour, but it's not hitting him like he'd have hoped. The pleasant fuzzy haze that should be flooding him with warmth and good will just hasn't materialized. He's pretty sure he knows why.  
_Goddamned serum bullshit…  
_He slams the glass down onto the bar and orders another.

First HYDRA decimates his unit, captures and tortures him for weeks, he gets stuck in a field hospital for two more, and _now… _now he can't even drink it all away? Life isn't fair.

He wonders vaguely if he should've shaved, but he honestly can't be bothered. Who cares if he's scruffy? If his hair's messy or his shoes aren't shined? Who cares if his jacket's a little rumpled up, if he hasn't bothered with a tie?  
Anybody that wants to hassle him over it is welcome to try. He wouldn't mind a punching bag to take some of his frustration out on, right about now.

He knocks back a few more drinks as Steve rounds up the core of his Howling Commandos team. The bartender is eyeing him, so he nurses the latest one for a while, trying not to stand out so much. They aren't helping anyway.  
The Commandos are cheerfully shouting and laughing in the next room, and Bucky knows they'll fall in. He knew it before they did. He's the one who told Steve to ask them in the first place.  
He also, unfortunately, knows he'll be next, and knows what he'll say when he's asked. He was just hoping for a little liquid courage before he had to face the inevitable. Life really isn't fair.

Bucky doesn't want to go. He never wanted to be here in the first place, but if he had any illusions in his mind about the glories of war, they are thoroughly behind him. He isn't sure he can face what going back out there means.  
He still wakes up every morning expecting to be strapped down, a needle in his arm. Still sees the dead men they passed on the march to HYDRA's prison after his capture. Remembers with a shudder the men dissolved into blue light without a trace, not even their dogtags left to be collected. Just… gone.

All he wants now is to go home and forget he ever heard of war. Of Germany. Of HYDRA. Forget about anything that isn't Brooklyn, and Steve, and safety.

...But Steve isn't safe. He's starting to think that Steve will _never __**be**_ safe. Least of all from himself. Steve _is_ going back out there and he just can't let Steve go alone. The punk's too damned stupid, too damned reckless. Without Bucky watching his back, Steve will get himself killed, and if there's one thing that can scare Bucky Barnes more than the war and the hazy memories of his capture, it's that. The fear that they will get Steve. That they'll kill him…. or worse…

It's enough to make him choose to do exactly what he least wants to.

When Steve sits down beside him a few minutes later, nervous and uncertain, Bucky smiles bitterly into his glass.  
_15 shots and not even tipsy…_

"See? I told ya-" He says, leaning back in his chair and mustering up as much ease and charm as can. He puts on his old Brooklyn drawl and a lazy smile. It's harder than it ought to be.  
He's trying.

"What about you?" Steve asks softly, his eyes flicking down at his hands before meeting Bucky's. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?" A nervous little smile flickers across the edges of Steve's mouth.

Bucky wonders if Steve even understands what he's asking for.  
For Steve, he's sure, it's not quite real yet. This is still a war game. He doesn't know how to explain the difference to the kid, so he doesn't try. It's something you have to live to understand, anyway.

...More than that, though he'll never admit it out loud, he's rather strap himself back down to that table than have to be the one to snuff out the idealistic light in Steve's eyes. He just can't blindside the kid by introducing him to cold, hard reality. He can't - even if he knows he should. Steve is the one reliable source of light in this world anymore, and dammit he isn't about to destroy that.

It doesn't matter in the end, really. Steve _is_ going. That much is certain; and if Steve is going, so is he. But Bucky's following Steve Rogers: the little guy from Brooklyn that he's always followed.

Captain America can go straight to hell for all he cares.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky barely has time to think about anything at all for weeks following. They're too busy preparing, traveling, fighting.

He certainly stops thinking about the life on the other end of his scope the first time he puts a bullet through the head of someone trying to put a bullet in Steve. Bucky will absolutely not allow any harm to come to Steve under any circumstances. After that first shot, they're not enemy soldiers anymore, just 'the enemy'. Not people: targets. His team's safety and the success of the mission consume him.

It's not really living, he supposes, but it's not dying either.  
He'll take it.

* * *

Bucky has stopped smiling altogether, Steve notices.  
Really, he had stopped smiling _genuinely_ months ago, but at least then he'd made an effort to pretend. Bucky isn't pretending anymore.

His friend is all determination, all steel and grit and reflexes. Bucky's begun to act like a hunter more than a soldier. He's silent in the trees and he never once misses a shot - never even pauses before reloading and lining up the next. Bucky works with the efficiency of a machine, but he's still barely sleeping, and Steve doesn't like it.  
Bucky takes watch after watch, only closes his eyes for a couple of hours here and there, and often only when Steve orders him to. Steve hates giving Bucky orders, but he doesn't know how else to make him rest.

Bucky still twitches and occasionally mutters in his sleep, but the screams have stopped. As best Steve can tell, he's getting better.

Steve thinks maybe he should talk to Bucky about things, make sure he's actually alright. He almost does, one night when they're sitting up beside a fire somewhere in southern Poland. Bucky's on watch. Steve is technically supposed to be asleep, but given he's the commanding officer of the group, he feels justified ignoring that technicality.  
He had planned to use the time to talk without the others listening in, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.  
All too vividly, he remembers Bucky's bleeding eyes in the days after the rescue, how raw he'd been. He can't bring himself to dredge up that pain for Bucky again, no matter how much he might need to.  
Maybe this is just Bucky healing in his own way, he tells himself. Steve's questions die on his lips, and he watches his friend's face through the flickering glow of the fire instead.

There will be time later for talking, he thinks. There will be time for a lot of things when this is over and they're home again. When they get back to Brooklyn, he tells himself, things will be better.

They will get through this and he will take care of his friend the way Bucky has always taken care of him.  
They will be ok. He just has to be patient.


	9. Chapter 9

Steve has begun to realize that he can't get drunk, but dammit he can try. Bucky would've loved the heavily aged booze he's salvaged from a bombed out bar. He fills two glasses and raises one in a half-hearted toast, even though there's no one else in the place.

It sinks in once he's already drained half the bottle in his friend's honor, the liquor completely failing to take the edge off of the darkness that's gnawing a hole in his stomach.  
Somehow, he thinks, there's something fitting in that.

Bucky is dead, and it's all his fault.

Steve has never wanted to die and to kill at the same time so much in his life. He's honestly not sure he's ever wanted to kill at all before now.  
Until Peggy finds him, trying desperately to drown himself in liquor that can't even slur his words, he can't decide which urge is stronger.

* * *

When he sees her coming, he tries to pull himself together, quickly wiping the heavy tear-trails off of his cheeks. He can't quite manage to hide his pain, but his voice is steadier now, no longer harsh from disbelieving screams of rage and curses.

Even after watching him fall with his own eyes, Steve had taken hours to fully understand that Bucky was gone. Barnes wasn't about to walk in the door, sit up in his bunk. He wouldn't be coming back in from sentry duty any minute. He wasn't coming back at all.

Peggy is grieving too, though she barely shows it. Her focus is on damage control and comforting. She knows all too well how Steve is taking things, so she doesn't ask. Steve's grateful for that.  
She's kind, but insistent. Strong and forceful in the way Steve's always admired about her.  
And she's right.

Bucky had made his choice and accepted the risks that came with it. Steve should have protected him, but he hadn't.  
Steve has made his choice too. He has to atone for his failure. HYDRA, and everyone in it will die. He is going to make sure of that - with his bare hands if necessary.

Afterwards… well, he'll figure that out when the time comes.


	10. Chapter 10

The massive aircraft drops like a stone as he banks the nose straight into Arctic ice. For a moment, everything is hovering, light and weightless as they plunge together. Only for a moment.  
The radio drops out into empty static a few moments before the impact, and he's distantly grateful that Peggy can't hear the pained grunt he makes as he's flung bodily out of the seat, slamming hard into the control panel. The wind-screen cracks, and one pane shatters when his head connects with the glass.  
What remains of the plane begins to shudder and creak around him, parts slowly breaking away as the ice shifts beneath it.

He pries himself up and gasps as the full weight of the pain hits him. He's broken at least a couple of ribs, he thinks, wincing, and his right leg won't support his weight anymore when he tries to stand. He feels a hot trickle of blood tracing over the side of his face and wonders vaguely if he's got head trauma. He's sure his wrist is sprained if not broken.

It's unbearably cold and everything hurts, but it doesn't matter anymore. He sags with relief, surveying what remains of the Valkyrie. He's done it.  
It's done.  
He's done.  
He did what he had to do. The world is safe, and HYDRA is gone with the Red Skull. He's too tired, to broken - inside and out- to worry about anything else.  
It's over.  
He can finally just be _done_... lie down and sleep. God he wants to.

He sinks down to his hands and knees, fingers shaking as he scrabbles under the seat. For a moment he comes up empty, until his hand finally closes over his compass, Peggy's photo still jammed into the open lid. The ship groans as it wedges tightly into the ice and fractures along the hull. It's begun to sink and he's got only a few minutes before the cabin floods. He thinks he might be able to swim for it, maybe reach the surface before the ship goes under...but what then? He'd only freeze to death that much faster, that much more painfully. There's no point.

He stares at the photo as he slowly slides down onto the floor, head propped against the bottom edge of the control console, shield coming limply to rest over his hip. He's too tired to push it away now. Why bother? The dinged and scuffed metal can be his makeshift tombstone. It seems fitting.

He closes the compass as water slowly seeps in around him, soaking icy cold into his suit within moments. He'll take her to the grave with him, but he'd like to preserve the picture as best he can, even if nobody is ever going to see it again.  
His last thought, just before the ice claims him, is to wonder if he'll see Bucky on the other side.  
He hopes so.


	11. Chapter 11

Someone is shouting in Russian. Bucky looks up wearily in his cell. Not that they'd let him sleep, but he was hoping to at least lie down and lick his wounds for a while. He's just been tossed bodily back in here after a beating, and the cauterized stump of his left arm aches steadily.  
They keep tying him down, shocking his brain over and over, but he's fighting them every step of the way. His bruised eye and split lip are testament to that.

He's losing ground, a bit at a time, but he's stubborn. It's mostly little things so far. Things that hardly seem important until he realizes they're gone.  
He can't remember his mother's name anymore… and he's vaguely uncertain if he ever had a sibling or not... but he's still holding on to the knowledge that he'll be free soon. Steve won't let him down. Through everything, he remembers Steve, and he knows Steve has come for him before. Nothing on earth will stop Steve from coming now.

They drag him from the cell again, still oozing blood from a cut above his ear, and shove him into a chair when his knees threaten to buckle, excitedly chattering at him in Russian. He tries to ignore them, but they shove an English newspaper into his remaining hand, force his face towards it.

"_Captain America Lost in Action."_ The headline reads. "_Nation Mourns Fallen Hero."_ Bucky shakes his head, a weary disbelieving laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"Nice try, assholes."  
This earns him a sharp cuff to the head. He reels a little and comes up grinning, weak but defiant. "You think I'm gonna fall for a fake newspaper?"  
He throws the paper on the ground. They pick it back up, shove it back into his hand. His face is pressed into the paper as if this alone will force him to absorb the contents.

He steadfastly refuses to believe it for days, no matter how many times they show him headline after headline, newsreels, and even a magazine cover once. No matter how many times he's beaten, electrocuted, or injected with god-knows-what, he stands firm. It's not true. It _can't_ be true.  
There is a memorial service planned in Brooklyn, one paper reads. Another has a long winded, official sounding eulogy and a huge dramatic picture of Steve shaking hands with a senator in his USO costume. He disregards each one, though his apprehension is growing.

It isn't until they finally show him the small article about his mother remembering her 'dead' son and his history with little Steven Rogers, full of details that they simply couldn't fake, couldn't know, that he breaks.  
The chattering fades into the background as everything comes down around him.  
Steve is dead… He's… dead. … Crashed and destroyed in Arctic ice, trying to take out HYDRA. For nothing. HYDRA still flourishes with or without the Red Skull. He's living proof of that. Or at least, living for now.  
...If only Steve had known the truth, Bucky wonders, would he still have gone down with the ship? Would Steve have survived if he'd known Bucky was here? He can't stand the thought, but it won't stop rattling around in his skull.

His captors must sense this, because he's left in isolation for days. No sound, no beatings, nothing. No escape from his own thoughts.

If he'd fought harder, he wonders, hunched over against the wall, could he have escaped under his own power? Could he have somehow reached Steve in time to warn him of the threat that remained? Here he'd been waiting to be rescued like some floozy in a bad movie when he should have been making his own escape.  
He knows there must have been a way; some opportunity missed, too many chances blown. Could he have crawled away in the night, somehow escaped the back of the truck where they'd thrown his battered body after the fall? If he'd just tried to run for it as they carried him in here, could he have made it?  
Maybe if he'd somehow managed to hold on to that railing just a few moments longer... If he'd grabbed a stronger bit of the car in the first place... If he hadn't fallen into the ravine that day… He wouldn't be here and Steve might still be alive.

He bites his lip until it bleeds, but it offers no distraction from the darkness that's growing steadily inside him.

He had one job out here and he's botched it. The most important person in his world and he's let him down. He wants to die. Wishes he had just gotten it over and done in the bottom of that ravine. Living now feels like betrayal.

It's his fault, he thinks, over and over and over as nights and days blur into one long ugly mass. His fault that Steve is dead.  
Steve is dead.  
Dead.  
He failed.

Bucky's world slowly implodes and shatters.  
After that, he just can't find the strength to struggle anymore.  
The last light there was in the world has gone out. What's left to fight for now?

When he's been silent for days in his cell, they judge him sufficiently broken. That's when they come back for him.  
He hates the scientists more than ever for the glee with which they hook him up to the machine, but he limply allows himself to be dragged to it. When the electric sizzle and the pain wash over him, he doesn't fight it. Why bother? Sooner or later, they'll win.

His mind is brutally scrubbed clean. The screaming is instinctual now. He barely even realizes he's done it. The beatings trail off and almost stop.  
Almost.

A few days later, after they've scoured away every trace of the man he was, only one thing stubbornly remains. A vague impression that there was once a person in his life with blue eyes and blonde hair. That they were somehow precious. Somehow special.  
That much they never quite manage to beat out of him.  
In the end they bury it too deep for him to reach, and he's docile and obedient after a few nights spent sobbing bitterly over the unnameable something he knows he's missing but can't identify. Eventually he just ignores the sensation. It's like a phantom limb, steadily aching but ignorable if he tries hard enough.

He starts answering to "the asset" or "the Winter Soldier". Sometimes the only communication he gets is a cuff or a slap. Nobody bothers talking to him unless it's an order. He no longer has a name.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_

_**It was pointed out to me that it's a little vague who's mother is being referred to in the article that ends up being Bucky's undoing here. I tweaked the wording a little to make it a little clearer. Hope that helps :)**_


	12. Chapter 12

Peggy Carter goes to the Stork Club one week after Steve vanishes over the Arctic. It's a Saturday, quarter to 8. She knows it's foolish, but she has to keep her date. She promised Steve. Some rebellious bit of her mind is sure he'll be waiting there for her.

Howard offers to escort her -more than once, actually- but she won't hear of it. She knows there's no point to this; she's isn't stupid. That doesn't mean she's not determined to see it through, regardless. There's no need for Howard to be dragged along for the show.

She dresses to the nines in black with a little mesh veil over her face, takes a corner table, and waits for a miracle.

Though she knows there's no way Steve will come, no way he could have survived, she watches the door all night, her heart lurching at each sign of broad-shoulders or blonde hair. She knows better, but she still feels bitter disappointment in the back of her throat as the hours slowly tick by with no sign of him. Some mad part of her brain tells her it's possible, she just has to give him time...which she does. If there's moisture on her cheeks, no one has to know.

She pays her tab at a few minutes to closing time. She's nursed a gin-and-tonic all night, but she hadn't the heart to drink much of it.

Yes, Steve has done seemingly impossible things. He's come back from so many deadly battles, so many close-calls. Something about this one feels final though.  
She knows he was saying goodbye to her.

If she sniffles a bit too loudly, turns her eyes to the floor and keeps them there… no one has to know.

She stays until they make her leave, until they're starting to mop the floors and turn out the lights.  
She never goes back.


	13. Chapter 13

Steve is bitterly disappointed to find himself alive and conscious, what feels like moments after the ice has claimed him.

He's lying in a bed, dressed in unfamiliar clothes. The room is warm and it feels like summer.  
He can't help the surge of anger that rises quietly in his chest as he stirs, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed to sit up. His penance has been taken from him...and how did they even _find_ him?

He's in what looks like a hospital room, but it feels wrong. Everything is just slightly _off_... He looks around, taking stock, ticking off a mental list of the things that simply don't make sense.

The light from the window feels oddly artificial and for all the breeze that's supposedly fluttering the curtains, there's no familiar smell of Brooklyn on the wind. There's no smell in here at all, now that he thinks about it. Where is the antiseptic, sterile smell of medicine and harsh cleaners?  
The room is too quiet aside from the hum of the man's voice coming out of the radio and a faint smattering of distant voices, presumably from the street outside.  
There should be shoes clicking past in the hallway, doctors chatting as they pass. There should be shouting, and conversations and gurney wheels. Instead there's just an artificially peaceful chatter and faint birdsong drifting in from outside. He's sure if he got up to look closer, he wouldn't see anyone from the window.

His attention returns to the radio, something about the baseball game they're playing bothering him. It's almost… familiar.  
He realizes after a moment that it's the game he and Bucky saved up for months to attend…. over 4 years ago. Why the hell would a station replay a game that old? It hadn't even been that exciting of a game...

Something is deeply wrong. Wherever he is, someone's put a lot of trouble into making it look like somewhere else. He shouldn't be here. He isn't even sure where here is.

The door opens, interrupting his thoughts, and a pretty brunette comes in wearing a crisp white nurse's uniform and a practiced smile. She consults the chart in her hands with obvious disinterest, and he knows she's not reading a damned thing from it.

She's not a real nurse - he can tell instantly. His mother was a nurse and he's known many more in the army. There's an unmistakable mark that the profession leaves on person.  
This woman doesn't have the worn, eternally patient quality that every seasoned nurse gets. She's too clean, too neatly put together. She wears the uniform like a costume, and that too is much too clean, too new. No hospital in New York has the money for new uniforms right now, which means he's either not really in New York or this isn't really a hospital. Most likely it's neither.  
He doesn't understand why anyone would go to the trouble of setting him up this way, but regardless, he's not playing along. He slowly gets to his feet, and sees the unease on the woman's face. She's hiding something, and he's not following the script.  
That tells him plenty.

He shoves his way out through a wall when the woman won't answer his questions, sprinting blindly in whatever direction seems most likely to lead to escape. The room turns out to be some kind of elaborate set piece, which he'd already half suspected it would be. That only spurs him to run harder. He has to get out of here and find his way to where the world makes sense.

He's ordered to stop, but he never slows down, shoving armed men in suits out of his way.  
_You want to shoot me? Shoot me. I should be dead anyway._ he thinks, charging through glass double-doors into-

_...Where the hell am I?_

He jogs to a stop, eyes wide. The streets are filled with strange vehicles that only passingly resemble the cars he's used to. Everyone wears bizarrely colorful clothes in styles that he's never seen before. Enormous brightly lit signs flicker and flash above him and the ambient noise, even over all the cars that honk and swerve around him, is nearly deafening. He pauses, overwhelmed. He has no idea where to run to, no idea where he even is.

"At ease, Soldier." A gravely voice sounds behind him.

He whirls to find a fierce looking man in a black trench-coat and matching eye-patch regarding him with an odd mix of curiosity and sympathy.

"You've been asleep for nearly 70 years."

Steve's heart almost stops. _70 years…  
_70 years... just gone in the blink of an eye.  
_  
Peggy.  
_Is she even still- What's happened to her in all that time?

"You gonna be ok?" The man asks, breaking into his thoughts. Steve is barely listening. He swallows hard.

"Yeah…"  
He realizes he's wearing a thousand-yard stare, almost as if he could see her face just by gazing long enough. He makes himself blink.  
"...I just… had a date."


	14. Chapter 14

_**Author's Note: While I usually try to keep my stories in a consistent universe, this one will deviate a little from the events in Winter's End because I had a new idea that I really like, and I want to explore it. **_

_**Enjoy the ride. :D**_

_**Part 2**_

* * *

The Stork Club doesn't exist anymore, he finds out. It was torn down in 1966 and replaced with a park.  
It's a nice enough park, if he's being fair.

It's just as well, he thinks, closing his new laptop with a solid click. Peggy can barely sit up these days; what was he going to do, take her out dancing at 96 years old? She can hardly even remember him one minute to the next... and every time she slips away again it's a dagger in his gut.

He almost regrets visiting her, after the first time he sees her so changed by the years that haven't so much as touched him. She's fragile, withered and weak.  
It hurts him to see her this way, but he still comes back a few weeks later.  
She gasps when she sees him at the door, a little bunch of daisies in his hand, and greets him tearfully again, shocked to see him alive before her; just like the first time. He swallows the jagged shards this leaves in his throat and smiles for her as best he can. It's his new pennance. He's never sure if she'll remember he's been there before or not, anytime he goes. It's just the chance he takes.

He wishes sometimes that Peggy was closer, but maybe it's better that she isn't. She's lived most of her life without him, and just because he's stuck out of time doesn't mean she is. There's no sense trying to pretend a whole lifetime didn't unfold without him while he slept, and more than that, it not right to.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. They knew each other a couple of years at best before he crashed into the ice. He's little better than a fling, a stranger. Something in him bleeds at that thought.

It ends up not mattering much. SHIELD has more than enough money to fund his flights to her nursing home in the British countryside anyway, and they've told him he has free access to it. He doesn't buy much with borrowed money -growing up poor during the worst depression in history drilled certain things into him- but this… this feels like a necessity.

Who knows how many more times he'll have the chance to see her before he loses that too?


	15. Chapter 15

The world has gone to hell.  
HYDRA, all his handlers, his Leader: they are all gone. He realizes as he staggers away from the unconscious man on the riverbank that he doesn't want to go back anyway, and the simple act of _wanting_ takes his breath away. He'd forgotten what it was like.

He stumbles into a busy downtown and vanishes into an alley to wait until night falls. He's too obvious, too easily spotted in daylight.  
He takes stock of himself. There is little he can do about the damage to his ribs for now, but his arm can be mended. He braces himself against the filthy wall of the alley and forces it back into place, swallowing a scream until it pops painfully into the socket. It's over in a moment, but the pain lingers, a tingle up and down the damaged limb. His breath is heaving, and the inside of his cheek is raw where he's bitten it, but he ignores this. The throb in his cracked ribs is harder to push aside, but he's slogged through more extensive injuries to reach an objective in the past. He'll survive.  
… Probably.

They will be seeking him, he's sure of that. He's disobeyed orders, and the knowledge that he not only _has_ but _can_ makes his head ache. He let his target live, and then, inexplicably, rescued the man from the cold dirty water that should have been his grave. The Soldier's not sure if it's even possible for him to have disobeyed more thoroughly than that.

They'll kill him when they catch him.  
If they catch him.  
He's a professional ghost, so he won't make it easy for them, but he knows better than to think they can't catch up if they want to. He needs to get off the grid and vanish, but instead-

He'd resisted the instinctive call to stay beside the blonde man. Resisted the urge to go back to Brooklyn: the place his target once lived - where he thinks this Barnes person once lived.  
He should be somewhere they will never think to look for him.

-Instead he finds himself crawling out of the back of a cargo train somewhere near Winchester, Britain.  
It's a stupid thing to do, but he's out of willpower and the rush of choosing, of being allowed to choose, is too strong to resist. He's chosen to come here and he will see it through.

He knows it's one of the worst possible places for him to be right now. It is intimately tied to Rogers, which makes it dangerous, but this woman may have answers. If she does, he will extract them from her.


	16. Chapter 16

He settles like a hunting dog on point into a dark corner of the warm, cozy room, listening to the click of a woman's shoes in the hallway. The steps vanish into the distance and his grip on the hilt of his knife loosens. He'd rather not have to kill anyone until he sorts out truth from lies, but if anyone intrudes on his meeting with this Carter woman, they will be put down.

Carter herself isn't a threat, even if she were awake; of that he feels sure. She's fragile and old and bedridden. He's already taking advantage of her wireless tablet, left carelessly on a bedside table, to do some research. The idea that he could simply ask her for information and trust it to be accurate had seemed unlikely. He's always trusted other people's intel, he's always had to. But this woman is not a handler. She cannot be trusted.

He's never used a device quite like this one before but it's a simple interface and much less buggy than some of the nonsense his handlers have given him in the past. He masters it quickly and after some aimless clicking, finds his way to the internet.

He is amazed by the sheer volume of the information available. There are several hundred-thousand results to his search; everything from term papers to an archive of memorial cards from 2nd graders to 'America's Heroes', to top secret information that he's probably not supposed to be able to read. He sees that it comes from SHIELD. These he makes a note to read later. The files are extensive and he doesn't trust the source.  
In the end he has 35 tabs open, each with a different search parameter. It takes some time to pare down the data from the sentimental garbage.  
In the end he settles for government records, something called 'wikipedia', and several old newspaper archives. These seem the most accurate and the least embellished.

He decides he'll interrogate her as soon as he's finished committing this information to memory. The device, he decides, he will keep. It is useful and he has easily disabled the pathetic tracking software it contains. The quiet voice that has been rumbling in his skull since the crash into the Potomac tells him that this is stealing, that it's wrong. The voice sounds something like a teenaged boy.  
He ignores it.

This unwanted portion of his mind is clearly unwilling to be ignored. Almost spitefully, it places the image of the old framed photograph before his eyes. The same one he'd discovered buried under several folded sweaters, almost as if to hide it, when inspecting the room for surveillance. Finding no hidden cameras or surreptitious microphones had surprised him, but perhaps the security personnel of this building didn't take the woman's safety very seriously.

The photograph refuses to be forgotten, to his annoyance.  
He'd been certain he recognized the skinny, underfed looking man in military fatigues, featured in the photo. The internet search had confirmed it. This was Steve Rogers, the man he'd fought on the carrier, but in a smaller, weaker state. 'Pre-serum' they'd called it.  
The difference feels… wrong to him when he thinks back on it. He's not sure why. He thinks he likes the smaller version of the man better, though he can't for the life of him say why he'd care one way or the other. It begins to stir up unpleasant embers in his mind, which is quick to repress.  
He thinks he remembers how it felt to rest his arm on top of the blonde head, little stick arms reaching up to try to swat it away. He thinks he remembers laughing, teasing in a gentle sort of way. He's not sure he knows what gentle is, but it's familiar in a way he can't quite name.  
He thinks he remembers a half hearted punch to the arm from a figure far too small to ever actually harm him. He thinks-  
He thinks that he almost remembers it… but he can't.  
He doesn't like the feeling of almost remembering. It hurts, like an atrophied muscle being suddenly put to hard use. He makes himself stop, makes himself focus.

He had nearly put the photograph back, but abruptly changed his mind, tearing it from the frame and tucking it into a pocket of his uniform. He hardly needed to worry about leaving a trace, so why bother being covert? He is here to interrogate. Besides, some part of him wants this picture, though he couldn't bear to look at it. Wanting was still new, still precious. He allows himself to indulge this.


	17. Chapter 17

He doesn't feel any remorse at the thought of waking the woman, though the faint voice in the back of his head seems to think he should. He ignores it.

How much sleep could an old woman need, anyway? He barely needs any, and if Rogers was telling the truth, he's just as old as this woman... possibly older. He silently jams a chair under the handle of the door, firmly covers the woman's mouth with is flesh hand, and leans down beside her ear. She jolts at his touch, eyes snapping open hazily.

"Be quiet." He orders.

Her expression as her eyes slowly focus on his face reminds him too strongly of Rogers' on the bridge. He looks away for a moment, in spite of his training.

A faint whisper escapes from beneath his hand. His breath catches when he hears it. A ghost of a name for a ghost of a soldier.

"... Barnes?"

* * *

_**Author's note: Those of you who were curious if she'd still recognize him now have your answer :)**_


	18. Chapter 18

He orders her not to cry out, not to try to signal anyone, or he'll kill her. She hesitates, then nods. He removes his hand from her face. She is silent, staring up at him. Her expression, oddly, isn't afraid. She looks… shocked. Confused? If she realizes that he could kill her without breaking stride, she does not acknowledge it. He wasn't expecting this.

"You're dead." Carter says softly, eyes locked firmly on his face. They shine oddly, filmed over with moisture. "How can you possibly-" She catches a glimpse of his left arm, glinting faintly in the glow of an alarm clock on the shelf behind him. Her breath catches and her eyes go wide. "What is _that?_"

"Who am I to you?" He hisses, jerking the arm out of her view and ignoring her questions. He doesn't like the idea that she's taking charge of this encounter, though it feels like she is, and that's putting him on edge.

She studies him for a moment, then reaches out a hand to him. He simply glares at it, unmoving. She raises an eyebrow at him, drawing it back.  
"I thought your line was, 'I've come to guide you to the other side' or something like that." She says. "If I've died, I think I deserve at least a little gentler treatment. … Really, you're dreadful at this. And _what is that thing on your arm?_!"

"You're not dead. …Yet. Answer the question."  
"Then what on earth is a dead man doing in my bedroom at dear-god o'clock in the morning?" She continues, unperturbed.

"Tell me what you know about me." He orders, teeth bared, not liking how weak the instruction makes him sound. Her brows raise higher yet.

"Well, you're a mess, at the moment." She says critically. There's something teasing about her voice. Something… playful? He's not sure how he knows this word. She's certainly not taking him seriously. "When did you have a haircut last? Or a shave, for god's sake?" His brows knit together, and he's not sure why he hasn't slit her throat yet.  
After a moment, her face softens into something laced with emotions too subtle for him to name.  
"Barnes, you- ...You're dead. You died years ago. _65_ years ago, in fact." She shakes her head. "If I'm not dead, I'm clearly dreaming."

He glares at her.  
"I'm not a dream. Answer the question." He's getting frustrated. He doesn't have time for rambling. He wants data.

"... Very well, I'll play along. Why not. What else have I got to do besides sleep?" The sarcasm in this clearly goes right over his head, which she finds a little odd. Barnes was always a snarky bastard, so for him not to rise to the bait seems out of place.

"This is… well... simply put - impossible." She sighs, makes a tiny gesture that he thinks signals defeat. Her hands come up into a miniature shrug. "Steve coming back was mad enough, but you-" She trails off, studying his face more closely. "I'd have said you hadn't aged a day, but your eyes certainly have done." He thinks he sees some kind of sympathy in her face and he hates it. "Alright, I'm not dead, and I'm not dreaming. ...Clearly, something very odd is happening, though, isn't it?"  
He runs a hand across the hilt of his knife.  
"You can answer the question, or I can make you answer it." He snarls. He's angry. Aggitated. He only has so long before HYDRA handlers will be breathing down his neck, dragging him back to the chair. Or at least trying to.  
He won't go back. Even if he has to kill everyone in this building to escape, he won't go back.

She frowns slightly. She seems more disappointed than frightened. Her calm is apparently drawn directly out of him, because he feels himself growing more and more frustrated as she continues to dawdle. Perhaps it's simply her age. She seems far more affected by it than he is by his own. Is this normal?  
He doesn't know.

"You're a friend." She says slowly, carefully. Her expression is thoughtful. "A very good friend of a very good friend of mine. You came here so you must still know me… You remember the war, don't you?"

"No." He says simply. He can't think of any reason to lie about that, so he doesn't.  
"But you're going to tell me everything you know about me... and about Steven Rogers." He orders, adding the Captain to the list as an afterthought. She's unsettling him with her inexplicable calm and he wants her to be afraid, to put them on equal footing. He should not be bested by a withered old woman. "And if you lie, I'll know." He adds warningly. "I'll kill you." He slips the hunting knife on his belt out and twirls it expertly in his hands a few times for emphasis before jamming it smoothly back into its holster. The motion is practiced and fluid.

She raises an eyebrow at him. Her expression is indignant now. Irritated.  
"You always were a brash ass, weren't you?"

He snorts at that, then freezes, startled by the action. Where the hell had that sound come from? Has he made it before? He doesn't know.

"Sit." She orders, her withered finger indicating a chair beside her bed, eyes still on him. He complies automatically before realizing he's done it. His programming is responding to the authority in her voice, the familiarity of it. Somehow, under the wrinkles and the weight of her age, this woman is all iron. He finds himself hating her.  
Being ordered this way is familiar, but wrong. She is not his Leader or his handler. He is not hers to command. She does not seem to recognize this.

"When I'm done, I shall expect you to tell me just what the _hell _is going on-" She continues, raising a brow at him meaningfully. "But first - you've been after me to answer a question and it would be rude to put you off any longer."  
He stares at her, caught off balance by this sudden change of direction. This is not how interrogations are meant to work.  
She shifts to face him more easily and he tenses automatically, prepared to strike out, defend himself, until she settles back into her pillow with a little grunt. "Now this is largely second-hand, mind you." She says, as if the man beside her hadn't just threatened her life a moment ago. "But I knew both of you very well for a time during the war-"


	19. Chapter 19

"The last I saw you, you were just setting out for a mission…. your last as it would turn out to be." Peggy recounts soberly, if a bit distractedly. She's still absorbing the knowledge that for the second time in a handful of years, a ghost from the past has appeared at her bedside. She supposes that with the life she's led, she oughtn't to really be surprised at anything anymore. … Even if 'anything' in this case means a 70-year-dead amnesiac at 2 in the morning.

She launches into a list of empty administrative details and he seems to devour the knowledge hungrily. She studies him as she talks, taking the measure of the man beside her against the man she knew. The changes are rather startling when she tallies them together.

Admittedly, Peggy had never been particularly close to Sgt. James Barnes. He was the sort of man who'd troubled her throughout her professional life: flirtatious and fresh - more interested in talking to her chest or her hind-end than to her face. He'd also seemed almost jealous of her interest in Steve. He was crass and rough in a way that Steve had never quite been, and she doubted they'd have exchanged two words if not for their mutual connection to Captain America.  
Still, she couldn't deny the closeness of the bond between the two men, and for all his annoying traits, she had sensed a strong and selfless core to Sergeant Barnes.  
There is little about him now that speaks of closeness to anyone.

She remembers Barnes best as a sharp-edged man with a sad, weighted smile and a quick wit. Fiercely protective of his friend and a shameless, almost reckless flirt. According to Steve, before the war Barnes had been downright charming and jovial. He was expressive and kind and warm with everyone except neighborhood bullies. Against these he'd been a ferocious crusader from an early age. He'd laughed infectiously and frequently. Everyone he met had adored him.  
She suspects Steve's telling was more than a bit biased on this front, given the idolizing way he viewed his friend... but she can easily believe that battle would change a person. It's broken many before him, and she doesn't doubt future wars will break many more.  
She's never seen a man changed quite like this before though.


	20. Chapter 20

Barnes doesn't like filling a chair, she can tell. His spine is ramrod straight and his shoulders are a crisp line of tension. His fingers, flesh and metal, dance compulsively over his weapon, occasionally worrying empty places on the belt, where she guesses he normally keeps more. She'd almost think he felt threatened by the room, by her, if it weren't so laughable.  
Perhaps in the old days, young and healthy, she could've given him a hard time of it. Now she's lucky if she can walk three consecutive steps under her own power.  
Something has him spooked though, that much is sure.

His eyes are skittish and uncertain, for all his anger. He keeps glancing at the door, glancing at her, gaze circling the room as if expecting an attack from all sides at any moment. She wonders afresh what's happened to him in those lost 70 years as a ghost. The look of him is not the look of a battle-weary soldier. It is a caged animal, ready to bite at the least provocation. Desperate and abused.  
The sergeant hasn't really aged at all since she last saw him, something she still doesn't understand… but there's something so worn down in his eyes and so beaten in the set of his mouth, that even if he still looks not a day over 28, there is something ancient about him.

She finds herself aching for him, for everything he's suffered, despite herself. Aching for the wounded soul, the broken mind. The lost, angry shadows that flit over that emotionless face. Aching for this shadow of a man. To some degree, it's for Steve's sake, certainly; but more than that, for his own.  
Peggy hadn't much liked Barnes during their acquaintance at the tail end of the war, but she's not heartless. Something in her reaches out to the broken human being beside her, even though he's cold and threatening and uninvited.  
He's also afraid and uneasy. Smarting from wounds that run under the skin.  
Scars that no one sees reminds her of Steve; of the weight in his eyes when he thinks she isn't looking. War has never been kind to anyone, but it is crueler to some than others.

She may not know what's happened to the ghost of James Barnes in the last century or so, and he's certainly not about to tell her, but she can imagine none of it was good. It's plain to her that the sergeant is as fragile as paper in that head of his, and apparently just as blank. She can't be frightened of him, knowing that. Not really.

* * *

Barnes, or at least the man wearing his face, has been listening intently to every word she's said, no matter how inane the details. She's nearly out of meaningless prattle, so she transitions into the more relevant details. He's immobile, absorbing every morsel and scrap of data he can get from her.  
It's like watching him mentally assembling a jigsaw puzzle, which she supposes he may well be. He hasn't so much as blinked in at least a minute.

"The mission was a success, if that makes you feel any better about it." She says, knowing full well it won't. "Dr. Zola was captured and HYDRA's plans were subverted." He snorts again at this, derisively. He doesn't seem to be bothered by the action this time. She raises an eyebrow, but ignores it. "...It came at a high cost though, as I'm sure you're aware." She gestures lightly towards his arm, having long since put two and two together. It glaringly obvious that it is artificial - a replacement then. She has to imagine he'd sustained considerable damage in his fall. Another thing lost to the war.

"I was the cost." He says, as if on cue. It's not a question, not a revelation. Simply stating a fact. His voice is flat, taking in this information. He's silent long enough that she's about to speak again, to elaborate-

"I fell." Barnes cuts in again, a hum of tension surrounding him like a mist. The pitch of his voice has altered dramatically. It is quiet and timid - drifts away from him like wisps of smoke. "I fell for a long time, and it... hurt ...when I hit the bottom. Everything was white. And cold… Always cold." She realizes that he isn't talking to her when she notices that his eyes are glazed and distant. She wonders for a moment how much he remembers.

"Yes." Peggy says softly. "You fell and … you died."  
She shrugs faintly when he glances at her, abruptly meek and questioning. "To the best our knowledge, no one could have survived a fall from that height."  
She sighs, looking down at her withered hands to avoid looking at his face. That he still hurts, deeply, is carved there as it has not been since his abrupt arrival. She can't bear to see it.

"Steve… Steve was inconsolable for days after that." She stumbles on. "It's the only time in our much-too-brief acquaintance that I ever saw him trying to drink himself to death. It was a sorry sight…" She shakes her head, a faint cough echoing from her chest with the motion. "He had that reckless look in his eyes and I was rather afraid he'd do something foolish... And he did."

Barnes' breath catches loudly in his throat, and she glances up, startled, to see tears forming in his eyes. For just a moment, he's a human being again.  
"Steve died." He says, voice falling flat again. It's a mechanical recitation, but it falters at the end. "He... fell too. ...They showed me." He pauses for a moment, takes a shaky breath. "Showed me every day." The voice breaks, and in it there is a faint, distant echo of the James Barnes she remembers. His face is impassive aside from the tears coursing freely over it. He barely seems aware of them.

"He did." She agrees softly. "And I was sure I'd never see him again."

The memory still aches in her bones, though she knows -even if it fades out of her head from time to time- that Steve is back, and alive and well. She saw him only last week - but she too-vividly remembers holding a radio receiver and listening to static where Steve's voice ought to be. The knowledge that he was gone.  
That, unfortunately, hasn't dimmed with time. She imagines she'll remember it clearly until the day she dies.  
Sometimes life isn't fair.

"You have seen him, though." The authoritative voice is abruptly back. Like the flip of a switch, he's cold and cautious again. "Recently." The eyes that had been lost and sad suddenly narrow and regard her with deep suspicion. He's evaluating her closely, as if expecting her to pull a gun from beneath her nightgown, or perhaps lunge at him. She finds herself missing the lost lamb of a man he's just been.

"Of course I have." She says, a bit indignantly, raising an eyebrow at him. "He visits every few weeks, when he's able. You think he'd just leave me to languish here without so much as a hello when he came back?" She's mildly affronted at the idea.  
Then it hits her. "Oh dear… Don't tell me you haven't?!"  
He glares coldly at her. Is he… _jealous_? Whatever for?  
She stares back, undaunted.  
"For god's sake, Barnes, why?!" She can't fathom why he'd come here, visit her, when he hasn't been to see Steve first. He can't seriously think he's too far gone for his best friend to love him just the same as he's ever done… can he? Barnes has made no move to reply, just scowls darkly, fingers on his weapon again.  
"Why on earth wouldn't you go to see him?!" Peggy demands. "What are you doing here when you should be talking to Steve?! He'll be ecstatic! You've no idea how much he prattles on about you-" He's drawn the knife and slammed it into the pillow beside her head in the space of a breath, missing her ear by a millimeter. She stops talking, startled, but her eyes never leave his.  
"What in the world has gotten into you, Sergeant?

"Shut up." He snarls, angry and unstable, retrieving the knife with a bit more force than necessary. He doesn't sheathe it. "You have no idea."  
"No idea about what, precisely?" She retorts hotly. Threatening some might make them cower, but Peggy Carter has never taken this sort of thing quietly. She's had quite enough of being patient with him. "All you've done since you got here is ask me questions, but you're not willing to answer mine? Is that any way to treat a lady? Am I not supposed to be curious or concerned, then?"  
"You're supposed to answer the damned questions and then shut the hell up!" He's surprised at himself for the swearing. He hadn't even realized he still knew these words, but his anger has pulled them out of him.  
"Whatever happened to you, he'll want to help-"  
"SHUT UP." He barks, more out of instinct than anything. His eyes are feral and wild. He's near his breaking point, and he just can't take much more before he'll override the screaming voice that won't let him hurt her. He's not entirely sure what will happen then.  
She was supposed to be frightened and compliant. He would quickly gain the intelligence he needed and vanish.  
It was not supposed to become a battle of wills for which he found himself woefully underprepared.

The Winter Soldier is not known for playing fair.


	21. Chapter 21

"You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything but ancient history." He seethes, forcing himself to keep his voice down as his training sounds alarm bells. He's been too loud, he'll be overheard. Security could be summoned.

"He doesn't want to see me, and _I don't want to see him._" This last part is not entirely true, but she doesn't need to know that.

If not for the sudden violence to her pillow and the hair's-breadth-from-snapping expression on his face, he would almost sound petulant…

Peggy frowns up at him, her face creased with disapproval.

"I can't say much for what you want, especially given your utter lack of manners," She says crisply. "But I do know better than to think there will ever be a time when Steven Rogers does _not_ want to see you. You're his best friend for heaven's sake. The man practically eats sleeps and _breathes_ you."

He snarls at her, teeth bared. Wars with himself over whether or not to kill her. The insistent voice rattles around his skull, berating him. It shouts until his hand drops away from the knife at his belt.

"You don't know anything." He repeats, jerkily standing up. "Don't tell anyone I was here-"

"-Or you'll kill me. Yes, yes, we covered that already, Sergeant. You really aren't a creative sort of man, are you?"

He looks ready to strike her, but his eyes suddenly flicker to the door where footsteps are approaching.

Both of them fall silent.

There's a tentative knock at the door. His posture drops into a half-crouch, wary. The knife flashes in his hand as he readies it.

"Miss Carter?" A young woman's voice comes through the wooden door. She knocks again. "Are you alright, Miss Carter? I thought I heard someone in there."

Barnes tenses.  
If they test the knob and find it jammed, they will raise the alarm. He takes a step forward, prepared to neutralize this new threat.  
Peggy is faster.

"I'm fine, Pamela, dear." She calls without moving. "Just watching a film. I didn't realize you could hear it in the hall, I'm sorry, I'll turn it down." She keeps her eyes firmly locked on Barnes', silently ordering him to stand down. He looks as if he will ignore her for a few tense instants, but to his own surprise, he abruptly obeys, rocking back on his heels. The blade is still drawn and he doesn't sheath it, but he stops advancing on the door.

Apparently his programming restrains him on a leash neither realized he still wore. He can't decide if her ability to control his actions or the pity on her face is worse.

"Do you need anything while I'm here?" The woman on the other side of the door seems uncertain, as if she can feel the tension seeping through the wood of the door.

The Soldier's eyes flick between Peggy's commanding gaze and back to the door. Back and forth. Back and forth. He'll snap if this goes on too long, she knows.

"Not a thing. Thank you, dear. Goodnight." Peggy says with a note of finality. _Go the hell away_ is strongly implied.

There is a moment of hesitation before footsteps pad away from the door. They are left alone again.

Barnes glares at her, breath heaving. He's nearly panicked, still at war with himself. He's angry that she's taken control of his interrogation; of him. Angry that she's stirring up things he doesn't want to think about. Angry in general. He sheathes the knife, nearly putting it through the thick leather.

He decides to change tactics.  
There's more than one way to destroy an enemy. He's not sure at what point she's become the enemy, but he feels a blinding hatred for her that he's not entirely sure he understands. All he knows is that he suddenly has a new objective here.  
He wants Carter to suffer.


	22. Chapter 22

He hasn't been able to kill her, and he's not sure why. The voice screams at him any time he starts to move toward his knife, to slice her open as he would any other aggressor: anyone who tried to get into his skull the way she has. He accepts that he's malfunctioning, but he's determined to hurt her all the same.

If he can't strike her physically, he'll try another approach.

"You're a stupid old woman." He hisses. "SHIELD is nothing but HYDRA under a different name." He makes himself stand in spite of the overwhelming impulse to stay still until ordered. There is a vicious satisfaction in watching the shock play out on her face at his words.  
He isn't sure where the satisfaction comes from, has never really felt anything like it before, but he drinks it in all the same. He will show her just how little she knows of the world. Of him. Of Steve… "It always has been. Since the beginning. I was there."  
"What are you-"  
"HYDRA grew up right under your nose and your underlings' noses. You fed it and supported it for all those years." Her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open. The voice has grown louder, rattling at the edges of his brain. _Stop. Stop. Stop  
_"If Steve dies, it'll be because I killed him." He adds, shoving the voice aside and moving towards the door. It's easy now, the autonomy. Her authority is gone with her ability to speak. She stares at him. Horror has replaced pity. He thinks he likes that expression better. The quiet voice is rioting now, but he's through obeying it.  
Carter is staring at him, utterly astonished, mouthing words that simply won't come out.  
"_That's_ why he won't want to see me." He snarls. "There's plenty you don't know."

It's more consecutive words than he thinks he's ever said, though he can't remember much that isn't the last few days. He's almost proud of himself.

He wrenches the chair out from under the door handle and tosses it across the room, almost as an afterthought. One leg smashes off against her wardrobe. The crash is loud and immediate, and she hears footsteps sprinting towards the room a moment later. Without another word, he slips out the door and vanishes, seemingly into thin air.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Man, Bucky can be a real jerk when he's mad...**_


	23. Chapter 23

Steve's phone rings as he's leaving the hospital. Stark's sent some kind of self-driving car to pick him up, so he answers as he's sliding into the passenger seat.  
The number on the caller ID is Peggy's rest-home, which can't mean anything good. They're only ever supposed to contact him in case of emergencies. Heart in his throat, he answers.

"Hello?"  
"Hello, Captain Rogers?" A nervous sounding woman's voice comes over the line. The slowly creeping dread that he felt seeing the number spikes at her tone. Something is wrong.  
"What happened? Is Peggy ok?"  
"She's alright, yes. I mean… It's just… well… we had an incident a couple of nights past, and she's been very upset and she was asking us not to ring you, but-... " There's a brief, uncomfortable pause. She seems to realize that admitting to ignoring her patient's wishes is probably not wise. "-it's um… Miss Carter's been having a pretty bad couple of days... She won't talk to us anymore. And… and I know I probably shouldn't be bothering you, after everything that's been going on… I mean I saw the news…. just… well you're the only person who still comes to see Miss Carter, and I think she really needs someone right now."

He glances at the clock in the car's dashboard. There's still a good chance he can make a flight before evening if he leaves now.

"It's fine. I'll be there by tomorrow morning. Just take care of her for me until I get there, ok?" He wedges the phone against his shoulder while he fusses with the navigation of the car. He's never much liked these touch-screen things, but with some effort he turns it towards the airport instead of his apartment.

A text message from Tony appears on his phone as soon as he's finished, demanding to know what the hell he's doing. He ignores it.

"We'll keep a close eye on her, sir. After the break-in and the broken furniture-"

He freezes in the act of settling back into his seat.  
"-The _what_?!"

"Oh… er… well, somebody was in her room a couple of nights ago. He made a bit of a mess. One of our aides overheard him talking to Miss Carter earlier that night, but she told them it was just a film at the time. A bit later he smashed up her room, took her computer and ran off."

"Why didn't anybody call me sooner?!" He demands, willing the car to speed up. Maybe there's a button for that? He prods at the display, impatiently.

"We weren't supposed to bother you, sir..." The voice on the other end of the line is small and timid. He feels a bit guilty for snarling at her. The last thing she wants to do is argue with Captain America, he can tell. "You were in hospital... and Miss Carter said we shouldn't call anyway... but she started saying something about ghosts the other day and we were all a bit worried- "

"Ghosts…"

"Yes sir…"

"I'm on my way."

He hangs up and tosses the phone into his duffle-bag in the back seat, then starts digging through menus on the car's interface in earnest. Tony Stark designed this thing, right? It probably has a race-car feature or something squirrelled away if he looks hard enough…


	24. Chapter 24

The last of the corpses is stacked in a corner in the basement of the HYDRA safe-house. The voice that had berated him for the thought of killing Carter has remained oddly silent as he's methodically slaughtered operative after operative, soldier after soldier. Several dozen in total.

There's a slowly forming stain under them, but he doesn't find himself bothered by it the way he might have expected. It's just business as usual. Their lives didn't matter anyway.

He doesn't know why, but his own lack of disturbance is a disturbance in and of itself. The violence should probably trouble him, he thinks, but it simply doesn't.

He just feels… cold.

* * *

He starts up the stairs towards the main level of the safe-house, trying to plan out his next move as he climbs. His mind feels a bit sluggish somehow, uncooperative, but not rebellious as it has been before. It's puzzling.

He's just reached the ground floor, crossed the threshold at the top of the stairs, when he finds himself abruptly reeling, staggering on his feet. He stumbles forward. He's barely able to close the heavy bunker door behind him, his hands are shaking so hard.  
He takes two more steps and finds he can't take another. He's so, so cold. Unbidden, the cyro-tube, hard and silent, surrounds him like a coffin. He can almost feel it, hemming him in, but it's translucent… like a mist of ice.

The world turns fluid, shifting under his feet. It's like standing in quick-sand.  
It's just as well, then, that he can't stand up any longer.  
Suddenly boneless, he slides to the floor, unable to stop himself. Huddles in a heap where he's collapsed.

Dots sparkle at the edges of his vision, and he can't stop shaking and convulsing on the floor. He doesn't know what's happening and when he tries to force himself to think and figure it out; it only triggers a seismic flood of pain from the crown of his head through every nerve in his body. Nausea washes over him in waves and he's abruptly sick -over and over- until there's nothing left in him to throw up. His stomach refuses to believe this, and continues to heave. He's powerless to stop it.

His breath is coming in short gasps and his heart is pounding. He's certain that he's going to die, but he doesn't understand why. Some failsafe by his handlers that he's unaware of? Had one of the operatives he's just eliminated had time to trigger something implanted in him before their death?

Had Carter somehow drugged him without his knowledge? He can't think of when she'd have had the chance, but then he can't think much at all at the moment.

He manages, with some fumbling, to drag the photograph out of his pocket, holding it in numb fingers. He can't grip it, so he tosses it clear of the mess he's making as best he can. It drifts to the floor a few feet away, the eyes of the thin man watching him dispassionately.

They stare at him as his vision swims and his head drops limply to the ground, his own eyes glazing over. The last thing on his mind before everything fades away surprises him, even in his current state.

_Steve. _

He'll never see him again, he knows. Somehow that hurts more than anything else.

Then there is nothing but darkness.


	25. Chapter 25

Peggy is in bad shape, but the nurse who greets him at the door shows him in immediately.  
Steve schools his face so she won't see his worry, though he's not sure she'd even see his face at this point. He tries to be optimistic.

"Peggy?"  
Her eyes are unfocused and she keeps talking to people who aren't there.  
She does at least turn to look at him when he gently takes her hand, searching her face for some sign of recognition.

"Peggy… are you ok?" He runs his free hand carefully over her cheek, relieved to see that she doesn't seem to be hurt. She leans into his fingers a bit at the touch, humming vaguely to herself. He can't help but wince at how small she looks against his hand.

"Steve…" She murmurs dreamily.  
"Yeah. It's me." He tries to smile for her, heart in his throat. "You alright? I heard there was some commotion."

She doesn't answer, just stares over his shoulder, face pressed against his palm.

"...Peggy who was here? Who were you talking to? If somebody tried to hurt you-."  
"The ghost." She interrupts, clearly a thousand miles away.

"What ghost?"

"He was here. We talked. It was so odd." She says softly, her face screwing up abruptly as if she were going to cry. No tears come.

He gingerly cradles her gnarled hand against his chest, willing her to come back to him.

"Did they try to hurt you? Do you know who it was?" Steve persists, trying to get some idea of who would harass a 96 year old war veteran, especially in a nursing home at 2 in the morning… Especially someone who wouldn't bother stealing any of the money or jewelry in the room...  
It almost seems personal, but who could have a grudge against Peggy, who'd even still be alive?

"He was angry." She murmurs distantly.

"Who was, Peg?"

"The ghost. He was so angry. He said…" She trails off, and her expression becomes pained.  
"It's ok." Steve interjects quickly, worried eyes locked on her face. "You don't have to-"  
"He said he killed you." She interrupts again, still far away. "He said so many awful things… And his arm… "  
Steve's blood runs cold.  
"it was shining.… so bright."


	26. Chapter 26

"There was a bit of shouting and carrying on around 2:30 that night. I asked Miss Carter if she was alright, but she said it was just a film and she really didn't seem to want me around, so I left her alone. About 15 minutes later, I hear this loud crashing, and when I came 'round the corner her door was swinging about and her chair and the wardrobe were both smashed up."

"And the man she was talking to? What happened to him?"

"I don't know, I'm afraid. He was gone before I got there, but I'm sure there was somebody else in there when I knocked. I'm just sure I heard arguing."

"Arguing about what?"

She shrugs, a little embarrassed.  
"Don't know that either, sorry. They stopped before I got to the door. Sounded rather heated to me, though." The young woman shakes her head, beaded braids clacking softly against each other as she adjusts her glasses.  
"Captain Rogers… I understand that your first priority is Miss Carter's safety, and that's ours too, but we have other residents to be worried about. Are they in danger? Do you know who was in Miss Carter's room? Are they going to come back?"

"No, they'll be fine." Steve shakes his head. "He won't be back. He got what he came for. This is the part where he disappears."


	27. Chapter 27

"I need everything you can get me. _Please._ It's important." Steve Rogers is on a red-eye flight bound for Washington D.C. Natasha is on the other end of the line. "Any files, any mentions, anything that could help me find him."

"This friend of yours has put two bullets in me already, Rogers. And he put three more in you." Natasha sounds tired and annoyed. She's still learning to cope with life under a spotlight, no tricks up her sleeve. It's not agreeing with her. "Somehow I don't think you're gonna get a big hug when you catch up to him."

"I just have to get through to him, remind him that he's not this… whatever the hell they tried to turn him into-"

"They didn't try, they succeeded." She reminds him, sounding irritable.

"You already said you didn't know how I got on the river bank. He's the only one that could've dragged me out before I drowned, and that means Bucky's still in there. Besides, he's out there alone. What if something happens and somebody gets hurt because I didn't find him in time?"

Natasha sighs deeply. "Ugghh…. What the hell, I'm in. Why not? You've done crazier stuff and survived. Why not push your luck?" She sighs again, and he can hear the faint pop as she stretches hard on the other end. "I'll get you what I can get my hands on in a couple'a days. Now get off my phone and get some damned sleep, Rogers. I could sure use some."

"Thanks, you're the best."

"No duh."


	28. Chapter 28

He's…. alive.

His face is stuck to the floor and his hair is matted and clumped with dried fluid, crusted in a fan around his head.  
He sits up slowly, still dizzy, his throat aching and dry.

Alive.  
...How?

Every muscle in his body aches as if he's just spent hours in intensive combat. He's weak and shaking. An acrid sour smell laces the air.  
He coughs and a faint trickle of acid heaves it's way out of him in response, joining the dried bits on the floor. To his relief, his body quiets after this.  
He's still so cold that it hurts, though, and damp with sweat. The former contents of his stomach have dried against his body. The pounding in his head remains, but he manages to pry himself up and stagger towards the commandeered building's kitchen. He needs water.

It is an instinctive drive.

_Drink._

_Live._

* * *

He drains a bottle of water in one long gulp and sinks wearily into a chair. There are fresh blood-stains on the back of it, but he barely notices them. He knows exactly how they got there. Why should he care?

He wishes his hands would stop shaking, that he could focus. He thinks maybe he's supposed to eat something. People eat, don't they? Perhaps that's what he should do too.  
There is food here, in this room, and his stomach demands it, even as it rolls. The problem is, he's not sure what to do with food. He hasn't actually eaten in... well in memory, anyway.  
Is food like water? Simply poured down the throat? The items in the refrigerator look too large for this.

He thinks of the commandeered tablet computer left lying in a corner before his collapse. He could research this skill. Re-learn how to survive without stasis, without handlers. Something stubborn in him pushes him up. He drags himself into the next room to retrieve the computer.


	29. Chapter 29

Natasha calls from an unlisted number a few days after handing over the Winter Soldier's file in the cemetery. Steve almost ignores it, expecting it be a tabloid, but something tells him to answer.

"Hey Sunshine." She sounds way more cheerful than the last time they spoke and… is she tipsy? With Natasha, it's hard to tell. He doesn't ask. "Long time no talk. So... good news and bad news." He glances over at Sam, occupied with driving their rental car. He isn't sure he wants to hear Natasha's version of bad news.  
"What've you got?"

"Well, the bad news is your psycho buddy has been on enough meds and steroids to kill a horse and with the cocktail I'm seeing here, he can probably bench-press a house and not notice. That's on top of the super-soldier crap they gave him initially, too. The good news is, he's got your metabolism, so he burns through the stuff like candy. -Which means he'd need to dose up again about…. 6 hours ago, or get hit by withdrawal like a freight-train."

Steve blinks.  
"...How exactly is Bucky going through drug withdrawal… good?"  
Sam's head whips around briefly at this, looking startled. He keeps shifting his eyes between Steve's face and the road.

"_Because _Rogers, it means he'll be too busy hurling his guts out to kill you. And, better, it means when he comes out the other side, he'll be a lot less pissed off. I'm emailing you this latest goodie I found, so you can look at it yourself. You will not _believe_ the amount of steroids that guy has been on."

Steve's silent, absorbing this information.

"Isn't that dangerous? Him coming down on his own?" He asks after a moment. Sam nods vigorously next to him, his face grim. It does nothing to ease his mind.

"Not like there's anything you can do about it, Rogers, I'm just the messenger. He'll already be in the middle of it by now. You wanted intel and I'm giving it to you. That's the best I can do."

"Thanks…" He murmurs, then catches himself. "Honestly, thank you. And… take care of yourself, ok?"

"You know me. I'm hard to kill." She answers brightly, disconnecting the call.

"This just got a whole lot harder, didn't it?" Sam glances at him again as he lowers the phone.

"We're going to have to start moving faster… A lot faster."


	30. Chapter 30

The Soldier's knees give out beneath him when he stoops to pick up the computer and he finds himself dropped onto all fours, the room spinning. He feels convulsions threatening again and crouches to wait this out, nausea rising warningly in the pit of his stomach. He's not sure he can sustain this constant ejection of his stomach contents. Some human instinct tells him it is neither healthy nor normal. He can do little but ride it out for now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the photograph on the floor. It is looking up at him from where he left it, and he'd almost swear it blinked at him. Can photographs do this?  
They never have before.

He quickly drags the computer towards him, forcing his attention away from the photograph. He can't stand up to do anything about it, so he will just have to ignore it for now.

The searching is harder than he remembers.  
He straggles his way through the touch-screen menus again, slow and awkward. His fingers are barely complying with his instructions and he has to retype his search several times before it's legible.

_How to eat _seems straightforward enough.  
He hits the search button.

There are several nutrition guides among the results, which he ignores. He needs the mechanics, not the fine details. Eventually he comes across a video that claims to teach the correct way to eat.* He clicks on it, dazedly watching the motions on the screen and trying to mimic them.

He watches it three more times before he begins to get dizzy again. He's just able to fling the computer to one side before his head comes down and he's sick again. At least half the water he's taken in is now spread over the floor.

"_Bucky."_

He blinks, blearily raising his head. Someone is calling him by that name again.

"_Geeze, look at you." _

He looks around, but there is no one in the room.

He knows that voice.

"_You are a mess, buddy."_

"Who-?" The question escapes him before he can stop himself.

"_I can't believe I defended you. You're pathetic." _ The voice continues, ignoring his question. It's harsher, angrier, than he remembers. "_I should've killed you when I had the chance."  
_It's grown louder, echoing around him.

The round shield that was dropped from the carrier suddenly careens toward his head. He can't duck in time, just loses his balance and tumbles to one side but somehow it sails past instead of taking his head off. He lies on the floor where he's fallen, panting and confused.  
The voice continues, unabated.

"_You're nothing but a murderer, now, aren't you? That's all you know how to do. Just kill kill kill."_

The thin man appears in front of him, as if from nowhere, pistol in hand. He points it directly at the Soldier's face and thumbs back the hammer, his finger on the trigger. The Soldier lunges off of the floor on instinct. There is a blur of motion and dizziness. He jolts as he hears the crack of a gun going off, but finds himself uninjured.

The thin man lies dead a few feet away, a hole in his chest. He scuttles back from the body, eyes wide, fully panicked.

Too late he remembers.

"Steve! ...No. No. No, no no nononono… I didn't mean to-"

The body begins to dissolve in an instant, like it's been submerged in acid. He thinks he can hear the sizzling hiss of disintegrating flesh.

Lights explode behind his eyes as his body abruptly spasms hard, collapsing him onto his back like a ragdoll. His head slams back into the hard floor, and he's only dimly aware that the promised convulsions have struck, over the pain. He feels a wretched, wailing sob erupt out of his chest as his body jerks wildly, completely out of his control.  
He's never been so terrified in his life.

The sound continues to escape him until the tremorring stops, leaving him a shivering heap on the floor.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Poor Bucky. His life really sucks sometimes...**_

* * *

_*** Yes, there really is a video for this.**_


	31. Chapter 31

"New intel boys." Natasha's on the phone again. He's starting to think she's doing little besides researching the Winter Soldier these days. Maybe she isn't. "Looks like there's a HYDRA safe-house in southern Norway that dropped off the grid a couple days ago. I caught some chatter that there's a HYDRA cell team on the way to do a slash-and-burn on any intel still left at the site. I'm pretty sure nobody on our side took it down so-"

"So that's where we find Bucky."

"Right. Coordinates are in the text you should be getting right about… now. Have fun stormin' the castle."

"... Uh, thanks?"

"It's from a movie. Ask Sam."  
She hangs up.


	32. Chapter 32

"[No sign of a struggle. Exterior is secure.]"

"[Proceed inside. Be on alert for hostiles.]"

* * *

He hears the low voices, speaking in a language he recognizes -understands, but can't put a name to- long before they open the door. He'd pried himself up from the floor as soon as he became aware of their presence, training overtaking all else. His teeth are bared but his movements are silent.  
He's a ghost.

* * *

"[Good god, it's disgusting in here. The smell-]"

"[What is this on the floor?]"

"[Don't touch that. Looks like vomit… Everyone keep masks on. Air could be contaminated.]"

* * *

He buries his knife up to the hilt in the back of an operative's neck. The shaking of his hands makes it messier than he'd prefer, but they still don't make a sound as they fall. Quietly, he drags them away before the others can notice the absence. He'll pick them off one at a time if he has to.

Rage and fear have filled him with a strength he didn't know he had left. He will kill them. All of them.  
He won't go back.

* * *

"[Sir, there's - you need to see this.]"

The group stares uneasily at the stacked bodies in the corner of the basement. They've begun to decompose and the smell is unholy. Every single operative assigned to this location is there, neatly piled on top of one another, throat crushed or slashed; a rust colored stain pooled wide around them.

"[Amundsen, contact base. We have to report this...]"  
There's a long silence. No reply comes over the com line.  
"[Amundsen?]"

"[Sir, we've got two operatives missing. Holt is not responding to hails either.]"

"[Search the building. Find them, and figure out what happened here.]"


	33. Chapter 33

Sam parks the car about a block away from the house and they approach on foot.

From the outside, the building looks innocuous and suburban. If not for the large array of antennas on the roof, it might've passed for an average home.  
Steve hisses a muffled swear when he sees the black vans pulled up in front.

"We've got company."

Sam smiles grimly at him, lowering his goggles.  
"Then let's go say hello."


	34. Chapter 34

The door bursts open before he has finished disposing of the second body. There is no attempt at subtlety or stealth from this new set of intruders.

"Holy- It smells like somebody died in here." One of them mutters. "Oh man... watch where you step, Cap."  
He stalks the sound of their voice, their movement, from the next room, preparing to spring, to dispatch them as he's done the others.  
But when the second voice suddenly speaks, it hits him like a steel beam and all the air is knocked out of his lungs.  
"Let's hope not. Remember who we're looking for."

_Steve._

His chest is painfully tight. It can't be Steve. Steve is dead. He killed- saw-  
He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

More voices suddenly erupt from the basement stairwell. He is not the only one who has noticed these new intruders. The noise pounds into his skull, but he overrides it as best he can. He needs to make sense of this.  
If he could just stop shaking...


	35. Chapter 35

There is a battle between the two factions who have appeared.

The Captain and his companion are holding their own well, and he isn't quite sure where his loyalties lie to begin with, so he simply watches; trying to sort reality from the shifting and confusing images his mind keeps painting over it.

One moment a large blonde man in street clothes is hurling his shield at an assailant, the next, it's a thin man in army fatigues, blood trickling down his chest from the wound there. The next, he's in the full Captain America uniform; and there are three neat holes, one through his thigh, one through his shoulder, and one directly through his midsection. Then he is simply the blonde man again.  
The other man, at his side, morphs from the winged man to a large moustachioed man in a bowler hat, to a woman in a military uniform, and back. Sometimes he has wings, sometimes he doesn't.

Watching the operatives is no better. He keeps seeing the face of the Leader, of Zola, of various handlers. At least two of these people he's certain are dead. The others would not be here to retrieve him.

Objectively, the Soldier knows most of what he sees isn't real. It can't be. Reality cannot bend itself back and forth this way. But that brings him no closer to determining the true edges of that reality. They are too frayed, too blurred. He can't see around his own malfunction.

His attention suddenly snaps back to razor-sharp focus when he sees an operative flanking the Captain. Neither Steve nor the other man seem to have noticed them yet.

He does not stop to think, just acts, launching himself onto the man's back and sinking his knife into the side of their neck with a growl. He staggers as they fall together, stumbling back to his feet with difficulty. Hot crimson spatters the front of his uniform.

The noise of the room grinds momentarily to a halt, as every eye turns to stare at him.

"Bucky!"

"The asset!"


	36. Chapter 36

He ignores Steve's stunned face for the moment, and rounds on the operative who has addressed him by his old name, teeth bared in a snarl. He's about to lunge for this man too when someone to his left barks a command that slams through his programming.

"зеленый водка утка три!"

It drops him like a stone to his knees, head down, hands coming up to lace behind his neck. The knife lies where he's dropped it beside his leg. He can't move.

There is a long tense silence.

"[Restrain it. They will want it back.]" Someone orders. Two operatives shift forward to obey.  
He hears Steve moving behind him, probably to renew the attack. The operatives freeze, take a step back.  
The barrel of a pistol is pressed roughly against the Soldier's forehead, and a solid click tells him the safety is firmly off.  
Behind him, Steve goes still.


	37. Chapter 37

"You want this." The man holding the gun says in heavily accented English. "But you will not take it. I will kill it before I let you have it."

"He's a person. Not a thing." Steve snarls, face a picture of rage. He wants to charge in, to silence this man, but the gun held to his best friend's head won't let him. His mind scrambles for a way to end the stalemate without a hole punched through Bucky's skull.  
So far, he's coming up with nothing.  
He's not sure why Bucky has gone still and submissive, but he can guess. His friend is essentially a huge, stationary target for the moment. Even if he can subdue the man currently holding the gun, there's not much he can do to fight off the remaining HYDRA operatives if he has to cover Bucky at the same time.  
He waits for an opening. A chance.  
...And hopes like hell he'll get one.

"This is just a weapon." The man says lightly, indicating the Soldier, on his knees before him. He shoves his captive's shoulder with his foot and the Soldier sways slightly but otherwise makes no response. "It kills. That is its only function." He smirks at the Captain and the Falcon. "One does not get sentimentally attached to one's tools."

"You guys are seriously fucked up, you know that?" Sam adds, eyes hard and deadly behind his goggles. He's trying to come up with a backup plan of his own.

The gun presses harder into the Soldier's forehead.  
Sam and Steve exchange eye contact. They don't speak, but the message is there.

_Plan?  
__All three of us get out of here alive.  
__How?  
__Working on it..._

"You believe whatever you want." The man with the gun says dismissively. "It doesn't matter. I _will_ kill it if you take one more step, and _that_ is what matters." He glances at the two operatives behind him again. "[I said restrain it]."  
They hesitantly step forward, wielding heavy magnetic cuffs.

"You planning to carry him all the way?" Steve persists. "As soon as you let him up, he'll kill you, you know that."

The operative smirks and opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say a word, an arrow is suddenly protruding from his eye-socket. He makes a strangled noise. The pistol falls limply from his fingers as he collapses, and chaos erupts.

Even as the body falls beside him, Bucky shows no reaction. He is the one remaining point of stillness in the room. He doesn't appear to even notice the blood spray that is added to what was already on his face.

The Soldier makes no attempt to claim the fallen weapon. No attempt to rise. No attempt to escape.  
No one has given him the order to move.

More arrows follow the first, cleanly dropping operatives one after the other, even as they scramble for cover or try to locate their attacker. The air is humming with the twang of a bow.

_Well, I wanted an opening…_

Steve hauls Sam behind his shield and ducks. He's fairly sure he knows who the mystery assailant is when there's no telltale ping of arrows against the metal. Even so, they're too exposed standing in the open and every instinct screams to find cover. Even perfect shots miss sometimes.  
He pushes his way across the room, trying to make it to Bucky, to cover him too.  
The fight is over quickly, long before he can get there, but Bucky sits unharmed, exactly where he'd been. Around him is a ring of corpses, each punctuated by an arrow.

He hasn't so much as twitched.


	38. Chapter 38

Clint's head appears in a broken window, high up the wall. He waves cheerfully down at them.  
"Can't leave you rookies alone for a minute, can we?"

"We?" Sam sputters as Steve hooks the shield onto his back. "Who is _we_?!"

"Nat said you'd probably need backup. Told me to rendezvous with you losers here. Apparently I have good timing."

Steve isn't listening. He's crouched beside his friend.  
"Bucky? Are you ok? Can you hear me?"

Silence.

Clint raises an eyebrow.  
"Uh...what's with the-" He mimes putting his hands behind his head.

No one answers him.

Steve hears Clint muttering something into his com as the archer swings down into the room, landing directly in a dried puddle of sick. He makes a disgusted face, checking the bottoms of his feet, but crosses the room quickly, gingerly watching where he steps. Over the faint crackle of com static, Steve can just make out Natasha's voice saying something.  
Clint nods.  
"Alright, I'm putting you on speaker… There. Let him have it."

"Вольно, война началась." Natasha's voice flows out into the room in fluent Russian.

Like the flipping of a switch, the Soldier's hands instantly fall limply away from his neck. Unsteady, he slowly wobbles to his feet, but he can't stay there. He lurches heavily, and Steve darts forward to catch him as he staggers. There's a half-hearted snarl and the Soldier pushes him away, weaving like a drunk.  
"Ты мертв..." He mutters as his knees buckle. He's too dazed to resist this time, as he's gently lowered to the ground.

"What'd he say?" Steve asks, gingerly laying the back of his hand over Bucky's forehead. It's burning up. His friend is only semi-conscious, muttering and shivering.

"'You're dead'." Natasha translates softly.


	39. Chapter 39

Bucky is hallucinating.

They've got him restrained so he won't tear the IV lines out of his arms, but that hasn't stopped him thrashing and screaming or whimpering and sobbing in turns.

He still hasn't said a word since he collapsed in the safe-house, and though Steve's told the worst of the withdrawal is probably about over, that doesn't make it any easier to watch his best friend coming apart at the seams…. again.


	40. Chapter 40

**Part 3**

* * *

"Buck?"  
Harsh, unsteady breathing is his only answer.

Though the eyes are closed, the look on his friend's face is small and afraid, like it had been when he was half-crushed under a beam on the carrier. He wonders vaguely if that's where Bucky's mind is now.

"I know you probably can't hear me, but… I'm here. Anytime you need me… I'll be here. Just hang on, buddy."

He doesn't get an answer, but he wasn't really expecting one.


	41. Chapter 41

Bucky's recovery seems to move in waves.  
One moment he's a force of nature, trying to attack anyone and anything within reach, the next he's hanging by a thread, convulsing violently against his hospital bed with the heart-monitor going crazy in the background. His pulse spikes sharply and drops out entirely once or twice. There is always someone in the room, monitoring him, checking on his vital signs, adjusting his IV lines.

Steve is a near constant presence. He always manages to find some way to be there: filling a chair during quiet moments, lurking in the back of the room when things get ugly. He's pathologically terrified that if he doesn't keep an eye on Bucky, the man will vanish out a window like smoke and never be found again. He's lost his best friend three times now, and it nearly killed him each time - physically and emotionally. He's not willing to go for four.

Steve has to hand it to the medical team, they barely bat an eye no matter how insane things get. They largely just work around him, patiently herding him out of the way as needed. He doesn't think he could keep his head half as well if somebody asked him to work on a delusional super-soldier coming down from the mother of all benders.

There have been few bad scares, though largely early on. Bucky keeps struggling against them every step of the way, fighting and clawing until he's worn out past the point of endurance. His body can't take the strain.  
Twice, Bucky has flatlined. They only just managed to revive him the second time.  
Steve doesn't sleep for several days after each incident… not that he's really sleeping to begin with.

It's a rough time for everyone.

* * *

Bruce spends a lot of time reading over the toxicology reports as they do blood-test after blood test, comparing notes to the documents Natasha has forwarded from… wherever she is now. He doesn't like what he sees, but the numbers do seem to be slowly improving.  
He also spends a lot of time muttering angrily under his breath about 'inhuman treatment' and 'lucky to be alive', and takes frequent yoga breaks to avoid going green.

Even Stark refrains from his usual stream of sarcastic chatter for a while.  
"Holy shit…" is all he says when he comes out of Bucky's room for the first time.  
He shakes his head, pats Steve on the shoulder in passing, and vanishes into his lab. He doesn't come out again for several days.

Clint seems to focus in on Bucky almost immediately.

He had absorbed every detail of the story when they'd initially recovered Bucky at the safe house, especially latching onto the brainwashing part and the forced violence. Something in his face had gone soft and bone-breakingly sad, and he hadn't said a word for the rest of the trip.

Now he makes it a point to find his way onto the medical floor and into Bucky's room on a regular basis.  
He seems to materialize in the corner of the hospital room at precisely the times when Steve _really_ should be taking a breather from the stress. Really should go get some sleep.

At first Steve resented this push, resented someone trying to intrude on precious time with his best friend... but Steve has always been an observant man, and it doesn't take long to realize that this isn't some misguided attempt to get him to go watch TV or something equally mundane and asinine. Clint isn't trying to babysit him, he's genuinely trying to help. And he's well equipped to do it.

Clint is uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful in Bucky's presence, like he's constantly weighing what he sees in front of him before he speaks, before he acts. Sometimes, when Bucky's asleep, he'll shoo Steve off to get some rest and take the chair beside the hospital bed himself, talking in low tones for hours. No one has to ask what about.

Bucky himself is far from quiet. He's been hallucinating, loud and wild, ever since he first regained consciousness, and as he gains strength, it's only getting worse.  
He keeps trying to dig out the IV lines whenever he manages to wriggle a hand free, and the screaming is near constant, only quieting when he's simply exhausted himself and passed out. Given Bucky's endurance levels, this isn't often - though he could use the rest.

The room is supposedly soundproofed, and Stark swears up and down it's the best stuff available, but Bucky's still audible through the walls sometimes.  
He's delusional more often than not, shouting himself hoarse in a wide variety of languages. Most of it is swearing.  
Unless they have to be there, most of the team stays clear of the medical floor. It's a little too personal for all of them, A reminder of things they'd all rather not think about.  
Steve can't really blame them. If it wasn't for Bucky's sake, he's not sure he could take it either.

As time goes on, the Soldier gradually quiets, but this proves to be even more unsettling than the screaming.  
Most days he's semi-catatonic. Doesn't make a sound, barely blinks, just lies staring up at the ceiling for hours on end. Steve can't quite decide if this is better or worse.


	42. Chapter 42

Bucky is talking now - instead of screaming - but mostly to people who aren't there. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in languages Steve can't identify. He has lengthy conversations with a lamp on more than one occasion.

Still, Bucky's convulsions and the constant vomiting have finally stopped, and the sunken, sickly cast of his face has brightened some. He hasn't had a close-call in a while. Steve will take whatever progress they can get.


	43. Chapter 43

Pale eyes are locked on his face.

He isn't sure when he nodded off, but Bucky is staring at him when he wakes up. There is a long silence.

"... How are you feeling?"

Silence.

"Bucky?"

"кто ты?"

"Sorry, I'm not very well versed in Russian."

"Ты мертв."

He catches the familiar words, the same thing Bucky said just before he collapsed.

"Nope. Still alive, but not for lack of trying."

"дохлый" Bucky mutters wearily, eyes drifting closed again. "Ты мертв."

He doesn't speak again that day.

* * *

_кто ты = Who are you_

_Ты мертв = You're dead_

_дохлый = dead_


	44. Chapter 44

Bucky has broken loose of his restraints for the second time inside of a week. When Steve opens the door of his room, he's slammed bodily into a wall. He feels fortunate that Bucky's deadly left arm isn't working properly yet, or he'd probably have broken something.

"Who are you?!" There's something feral in the eyes looking back at him. It's the Soldier, not Bucky Barnes, who's asking.

"Your friend." Steve says firmly, keeping himself still.  
He's glad Bucky's speaking in English today. The Soldier gets agitated when people can't understand him, and that only makes these episodes worse.

Steve forces himself to exude calm. He refuses to hurt Bucky, and he knows what will happen if he appears to be resisting. He doesn't want to have to defend himself... He still hasn't forgiven himself for that dislocated shoulder on the carrier.

"I don't have friends." The Soldier snarls. His flesh hand tightens around Steve's throat. It is trembling.  
He's still weak and exhausted, Steve can see, but this makes him no less aggressive or angry.

"Hey Steve- ...shit…"  
Sam freezes in the doorway. The Soldier turns on him with bared teeth, but he doesn't relinquish his current prey.

"Sam, just go. I'm fine." Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky's face as he speaks. His voice is low and hard.

"The hell you are!"

The Soldier growls, shifting as if to cross the room and close with this new adversary. He doesn't like the shouting.

"Sam, go. Between the two of us, I'm a lot harder to hurt. He's down an arm... I'll handle it."

Sam doesn't like it, but he can't argue with the fact that Steve's a whole lot more durable than he is. He backs up slowly and waits outside, quietly wishing he'd brought some kind of weapon with him. Steve may have reservations about hurting this guy, but if it's a choice between Steve or the Winter Soldier, Sam has no such qualms.

Steve swallows hard, bracing himself.  
"Bucky, look at me."  
The Soldier's head swivels to him and he's slammed back against the wall again, harder.

"Don't call me that." There's a note of desperation under the growl.

"It's your name."

"I don't have a name."

"James Buchanan Barnes. That's the whole thing. It's a mouthful I know."

The Soldier glares at him. The shaking has extended through his whole frame now.  
"...Why can't I kill you?"

"Because you're my best friend."

The hand drops away from his throat. They stare at each other in tense silence for a few moments. The Soldier staggers back a pace, seemingly disoriented. He starts to sway.

Steve just manages to get a shoulder under his friend's arm before Bucky collapses again, strength spent.

* * *

"I'm talking to Stark about getting tougher restraints for this guy." Sam tells him after they've managed to haul Bucky back into bed. The torn fabric straps are utterly useless in keeping him back.

"I'd rather we just stopped tying him down altogether…."

"Well when he stops trying to kill you, maybe we'll do that."  
Steve raises an eyebrow, ready to argue. Sam cuts him off.  
"Look, I don't like the idea of traumatizing anybody any more than you do. It sucks to have to tie him up after all the shit they already did to him..."

He heaves a heavy sigh, and for the first time, Steve can see how tired Sam is. How much this has worn him down, too. Sam meets his eyes, and the calm anchor that he's been throughout this entire ordeal is suddenly back. Steve can't help feeling like he wasn't meant to see behind the mask.

"Your buddy is dangerous and he keeps jumping people whenever he gets loose. We have to do something or people are gonna get hurt, and yeah, that could include Bucky too. Until he can play nicely with others, it's this or that Hulk cell you were telling me about."

Steve can't find his voice. He just nods.


	45. Chapter 45

The catatonic period is essentially over, though there are still episodes now and then.

Bucky is awake and relatively lucid most of the time these days. He's back to his old habit of barely sleeping at all, but his eyes flicker around the room now, taking in every detail, every sound. He's very much aware of where he is.

He's still restrained; this time with absurdly durable Stark-designed steel fiber straps that he has yet to manage to break through. Steve still hates it, but he has to bow to the necessity.

Bucky put a hole in a steel door during his first break-out attempt, and he's nearly taken off Steve's head once or twice since. Sam had a good point.

Still...  
Bucky has become relatively calm in his presence, though he still shrinks from most of the others. He barely talks to Steve unless it's a fever dream, and most of the time when he does, it's just rambling in Russian... but he no longer screams, swears, or struggles to escape any time Steve walks into the room. It's progress.

From what they've been able to tell, when Bucky is coherent enough to think at all, he now views Steve as some kind of unofficial handler. Sometimes,when he's semi-conscious, he even calls him "командир" which apparently means 'Leader'. It doesn't always make their patient compliant, and he's still unpredictable and violent at times, but it's a sign that he remembers at least _something_ about his friend. Some level of trust.  
It's a start.


	46. Chapter 46

Eyes track him as he opens the door, following him all the way to the chair beside the bed where he will sit. This has become their ritual each day for the past several weeks.  
Steve will sit and talk about everything and nothing. Bucky will lie still in silence, sometimes listening, sometimes not.

Today, he changes the dance.

"You died." Bucky rasps in uncertain English. He stumbles a bit over the words, seems confused by the sound of them. He sounds parched.

"So did you." Steve says gently, filling a soft plastic cup with water and offering it. The last time Bucky was given a glass, he shattered it and tried to use the shards on the restraints. … The guy always had been resourceful.  
Bucky makes no move to accept the water.

"I am not dead." The Soldier murmurs thoughtfully, turning his eyes away to the monitors that are a constant reminder of his vital signs.  
It's the one thing he's sure about, even if everything else is vague.  
Death should not hurt. It should not burn, and ache, and freeze.

"No. You're not." Steve agrees. "And neither am I."

"I should be."

"No way. You're too tough to die, apparently. Me, I'm just too dumb."

"How...?" Bucky can't seem to find the words, so Steve takes his best guess at what he wants.

"Honestly, I don't know. I figured we'd both die young, as stupid as we were. But here we are, 95 and 96 year old geezers: still kicking."

Bucky looks blankly back at him.

"I saw you die. You attacked me. How did you survive?"

"What, when I fell? You dragged me out." Steve is working to keep his voice level and his answers calm and easy. Inside he's bursting. Bucky is finally talking. To him. And it's not threats or fluent Russian swearing.  
They're really talking.

"Not that... You... attacked me. I defended myself and- …" A troubled shadow falls over Bucky's eyes. He trails off, frowning.  
" You died. ...And ...dissolved."

"... I dissolved?"

"You were smaller." He says, apparently expecting this to clarify.

Steve blinks, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.  
"You remembered the old me?"

"You tried to kill me… the small you. But then you died. ...And dissolved." He repeats, confused by his own retelling. He lapses into a helpless silence. There's a beaten look on his face, like he expects to be punished for this inadequacy.  
Steve tries not to see it.

He frowns, unsure how to take this revelation. He's sure Bucky was hallucinating before they reached him, so this is probably just a fever-dream that he's talking about, but… he remembers something. Something HYDRA didn't teach him. That counts as progress, right?

Abruptly, he thinks of the photo they recovered from the house, disregarded in the chaos of Bucky's reappearance. It may be the thing that jogged his memory before. Maybe it can do it again.  
He thinks it probably belonged to Peggy, like the computer, but he's been so consumed with Bucky's care that he hasn't had a chance to return it to her yet. He wants to do so in person.  
He stands and goes to the drawer where it's being kept, and offers it to Bucky.

"Did I look like this?"

Bucky hisses out a sharp breath of distress and tries to jerk away. The restraints won't let him.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Dead." Bucky hisses. "Dead. Dead. Dead." He repeats this over and over, flinching away when Steve tries to touch his shoulder. He huddles there, chanting it, until Steve finally leaves the room, disheartened.


	47. Chapter 47

"So what'd you do to the kid?" Clint asks conversationally from the couch as he passes. It's been 6 hours since he last set foot in Bucky's room.

"Not in the mood, Clint."

"For what? He actually said something to me that wasn't 'fuck off' in Russian. I figured you had some kinda heart-to-heart."

"Not exactly…. He talked to me a bit and then I accidentally freaked him out." Steve drops with a huff into a chair across from the archer. "He wouldn't quit chanting 'dead' over and over at me until I left the room. Who knows how long he kept it up after that…" He sighs deeply, rubbing his palms over his eyes. "Why, what'd he say to you?"

"You're not gonna believe it. So you know how he's always a zombie when you talk to him? Just totally blows you off? Well earlier, I come in, sit down, and he just looks at me and says 'you saved me.'"  
Clint grins, reaching over and nudging Steve's arm heavily. Steve just rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a weak smile on his lips.  
"So I say, 'yeah, but that wasn't just me', and I'm about to say something about Natasha and he says 'How did she know the code?' and I'm like 'hell if I know kid. She's just awesome like that' and then, here's the best part, he says '_thank you'_!" Hawkeye is grinning like an idiot, apparently very proud of himself. Steve can't help smiling back a little.

"Sounds like you had a pretty good conversation."

"Baby steps, man. Baby steps."


	48. Chapter 48

"Where did you get that?" Bucky's voice reaches him before he's even closed the door this time. He blinks, half turned to the doorway, and looks over his shoulder, confused. He's made it a point to turn his back when he shuts the door, as a sign of trust. He's sure Bucky has noticed, even if he hasn't said so.

"Where did I get what, Buck?"

"I am not 'Buck'." It's not indignant or accusing. Simply a statement of fact. Steve tries to ignore the throb this causes in his chest. "The thing on your back."  
Steve realizes his shield is still strapped there, forgotten, and pulls it down, holding it out to show Bucky. The pale eyes study it a moment, then regard him with blank curiosity. "You threw this away."

"Yeah, I did. Fortunately, a friend of mine found it and brought it back."  
He still owes Stark for that one.

"You should not have thrown it away." Bucky tells him seriously, brows knitting together. "I was going to kill you. You should never abandon a tactical advantage."

"But you didn't kill me." Steve answers as lightly as he can, sitting down beside the bed, the shield in his lap where Bucky can easily see it.

"I tried." Bucky says matter of factly. There's something deeply conflicted in the voice. "I was ordered to. I don't... know why…I didn't."  
There's a long uncomfortable silence as Steve tries to adjust to hearing his best friend musing that he probably should've just murdered him. He's still not really used to being on the receiving end of Bucky's attacks, instead of protected by them.  
"I… know you. You…" Bucky trails off, frowning as he tries to find something that's just out of reach. "You were my mission. … but before…."

"I told you, we grew up together."

"I'm a weapon." the man with Bucky's face says. "I didn't 'grow up'. I was made."

"You're a person, and yes you did." Steve says firmly. Bucky's eyes narrow just slightly.

"This is strange..." He says thoughtfully after a moment. "I don't understand our interaction. You are my commander, but you don't reprimand me… I'm… not afraid of you." He says this like a confession, eyes darting sidelong at Steve as if waiting for punishment. When none comes, he continues.  
"...I don't want to kill you, even when I'm ordered to. I fought for you, even when I was _not_ ordered to. I know you, but I don't know you…"  
A thought occurs to him, something that has prickled in his mind since the scene in the safehouse.  
"You did not engage the enemy while I was inoperable… Why?"

"He would've killed you if I did."

"You could have killed him and the rest regardless." The Soldier answers, unfazed. "You do not appear to respond to the code commands, and so you could continue to fight. There was no reason not to complete your mission.  
I would be collateral damage. Acceptable loss." That he's just equated himself with property damage doesn't appear to bother him.

Steve feels his blood run cold at how lowly Bucky values his own life.

"You _were_ my mission in there, Buck. I was there to save _you_."  
Bucky stares at him, as if this idea had not occurred to him. He seems utterly bewildered by it, and Steve's heart wrenches.

"...Why? You have no investment in me-"

"-Because you're my best friend, Bucky, that's why!"

It comes out more heated than he intends, but Steve is worn and stressed and he can't bear to see Bucky so blank and empty anymore. It's eating away at him. He sinks back wearily into his seat.  
"I owe you a lot… A long time ago, you probably don't even remember, we were fighting together… We got in over our heads and you… you-"

"I fell. I know." Bucky supplies, after he trails off.

Steve's head perks up at this.  
"You remember?"

"I have researched the event and confirmed it with Agent Carter." The Soldier's face twists at the name.

Steve groans. "Yeah, I heard about your visit. Don't ever do that again."  
Bucky cringes a bit, but he nods obediently. Orders, he understands.

Steve fights himself not to reassure his friend that it's ok. It isn't.  
"You two never really did get along…" he says instead.

"She is horrible." Bucky says emphatically. It's the most emotion he's dredged up all day. "Carter gave me orders, but she should not."  
"She's a friend, Buck. Try not to traumatize her anymore, ok?"  
"Understood."  
The order has been reinforced. This means it is important.  
"I will stay away from her." Bucky says, and it's the first and only time Steve can think of that he's ever heard Bucky sound genuinely afraid of a woman that isn't his mother. He'd laugh if the situation weren't so damned depressing.  
"Good idea." He manages.


	49. Chapter 49

_**Author's Note: Sorry to vanish folks, I was out of town with no internet to speak of for a couple of days. Here are three big chapters to enjoy to make up for the wait :)**_

* * *

"Miss Carter, you have a visitor."

"Steve!" Peggy's eyes are clear and sharp today. She's been doing well, so Pamela has kept him informed.

He greets her with an enthusiastic but careful hug. He has to be gentle with her, but he can't help the joy that surges through him to be recognized. She kisses his cheek before letting him pull away, and refuses to let go of his hand.

"Where _have _you been? I know I was a bit of a mess when you visited last, but certainly I wasn't _that_ dreadful of company, was I?"  
She's teasing him, he knows, but it still hurts to think about. He forces on a smile.

"I was out finding this." He sets the computer on her lap. It's freshly cleaned and refurbished, compliments of Tony. "And I think this is yours?" The photo is laid on top. She stares at it for a few moments, then closes her eyes, giving his hand a soft squeeze.

"So I wasn't imagining it… I thought perhaps I dreamed the whole thing up." She raises her eyes to the photograph again. "Barnes was really here... I couldn't imagine who else would take to take the silly thing, but… it seemed so mad. " She looks up at him with a sigh. "I take it you found our ghost, then?"

"Yeah… He's… um…"  
"A mess?"  
"Yeah." Steve looks away.  
She sighs again.  
"After the way he behaved when we met last, I can't decide if I'd rather hug the poor sod or slap him right across that cheeky face of his…" She lifts the photograph and studies it, choosing to ignore the faint speckles of red that were not there when she held it last. "Is it true… what he said?"  
"What?"  
"That HYDRA was part of S.H.I.E.L.D-"

She glances at him and cuts off, all color draining from her face.

"...Oh god… it is true… I can see it on your face." She sinks back into her pillow and for a moment, looks like she's about to crumble  
Steve says nothing. He doesn't know what to say.  
"How did we not see it?" Her voice is small and tight, and he knows how much this must hurt her.

"They're sneaky bastards..." Steve shrugs, holding her hand just a little tighter. "None of us knew. I guess… I guess anybody that got suspicious got eliminated…"  
Peggy is quiet, absorbing this.  
"I suppose if he had to be telling the truth about something, I'm glad it's that and not about killing you…" She manages after a moment. Her voice is a bit rough and thick in her throat. She's trying not to cry. "Is that awful of me? Until you were here and I could touch you, make sure you were really- ...I was so-..." She shakes her head, tears rolling silently down her wrinkled cheeks. "I just couldn't face that again."  
He gently brushes the moisture from her face.  
"I know what you mean..."

She sniffles, smiling appreciatively at him through her tears.  
"God look at us, what soppy messes we've become in our golden years."  
"I think we earned a little soppiness." Steve mirrors her, the corners of his mouth ticking faintly up. He leans down and kisses her forehead softly. "We can't all be Peggy Tough-as-Nails Carter _all _the time."

"Some of us certainly can't." She retorts gently, with another faint sniffle. "You'd look dreadful in a skirt and heels."

* * *

It's a good visit overall. They talk and they're close, and she _remembers_ for the entire time he sits beside her.  
When she gets too tired to talk, eventually slips off to sleep, he kisses her hand, still loosely clutching his, and sets it down beside her on the bed before letting himself out.

He has three new voicemails on his phone when he finally turns it back on.


	50. Chapter 50

_New Messages._

_Message One:_

_Hey Cap, not to freak out out or anything, but your terminator boyfriend woke up a little bit ago and started asking for you. I told him you weren't here and he got a little upset… didn't manage to get loose, but damned if he wasn't trying, so I promised I'd call his daddy for him. Call back and I'll put you on speaker for him or something._

_*beep*_

_Message Two:_

_Uh...Cap? No rush, but where hell are you? It's been like 45 minutes. Buckster is kinda antsy and I'd rather not find out if he can get out of those straps with good old fashioned willpower. Seriously… how long does your old-lady visit take? Also dropping out of communication is not cool. No dying on me, Stars and Stripes._

_*beep*_

_Message Three:_

_-Ok, go, kid.-  
_

… _The loud one said I should talk and you could hear me…?  
_

_-I am not loud!-  
_

_-Shut up, Stark, let him talk.-  
_

_-No Robocop, don't press that button, it'll- -_

_*beep*_

_No new messages._

_Repeat messages?_

* * *

With a sigh, Steve dials as his cab starts toward the airport. He'd thought after nearly three months of constant vigilance he'd be able to quietly visit Peggy for just one afternoon. No such luck.  
He probably shouldn't be surprised by that.

"Ah, finally Cap, _there _you are!"

"Tony….I turned my phone off for two hours... Two. Hours. Like I told you I was going to… How did you manage all that chaos in two hours? How?"

"In my defense, I just happened to be doing a diagnostic on the kid's fancy arm when he woke up and flipped out on me. Not my fault.  
So, good news: he's all calmed down. ...Bad news: he's being a sad mopey puppy right now and it's freaking me out.  
...Seriously, talk to the kid before he does the puppy eyes thing again. I don't know how much more sad face I can take."

There's some fumbling and a faint clicking sound and then the dull echo of a roomful of ambient noise. He recognizes Bucky's muttering amongst the rest.

"Bucky?... Are you ok?"

"... Steve?"

Bucky's voice is small and timid and uncertain, tinny over the speaker connection. He must be pretty uneasy, because he almost never uses Steve's given name unless he's really scared. Steve's started to notice that Bucky reverts into something like a child when he's particularly scared or overwhelmed sometimes. It's almost worse than the rages.

Steve sorely wishes he could just teleport himself from place to place. Airplanes take too damned long.

"Yeah... it's me. Sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. I'll be back in a few hours. Just sit tight until then, ok?"  
"Where are you?" Bucky sounds preoccupied. Worried.  
"Visiting a friend."

There are a few moments of silence.

"... Don't die." Bucky says at length.  
Steve can't decide if he wants to laugh or cry at that. He ends up doing a bit of both.  
"I'll do my best. Behave until I get there, ok?"  
"I don't understand that order."  
"It's… it's a request. Not an order. It means don't cause trouble."  
"I will not cause trouble."  
"... and Bucky?"  
"That is not my name."  
"Humor me."  
"I don't understand-"  
"- Look, just take care of yourself until I get back… ok? Get some rest, relax, try to take it easy?"  
"... I'm not sure I can comply... but I'll try."  
"Good enough. I'll see you in-" He checks the time for the express flight back, "6 hours, give or take a little for traffic."

Bucky is silent, and if not for the muffled noise of the rest of the room, he'd think the call had dropped.

"Use caution." Bucky ventures after a few moments, quiet and subdued. It's apparently his version of 'hurry back'.

"Awwww, hey Cap, I think he misses yo- Ow! Hey, uncalled for, Wilson! Uncalled for!"  
"Tony, please..." Bruce sighs from somewhere in the background and Steve can just envision him rubbing his forehead with exasperation. "Sam, honestly, that's not helping-"

"I don't understand your companions." Bucky mutters, bed creaking as he shifts himself away from the noise of the others as much as he can. The straps don't allow much give, but he can shimmy to one edge of the mattress or the other if he works at it.  
"I don't know if anyone _does_." Steve sighs, talking over Tony's sputtering and Sam's stern lecturing with some effort. "Take care of yourself. I'll talk to you when I get back. Call me if you need anything. I'll have the phone on this time."  
"Understood."

"Hey, Cap, while you're on the line-"  
"Whatever it is, it can wait. The guy's got PTSD, Tony. This is important-"  
"Would both of you _please_ just-"

"Would all of you quit being so damned noisy?!" Steve's 'stern teacher' voice cuts through the noise in the room, and he's gratified to hear silence stretching over the line. He can almost hear Bucky breathing a sigh of relief. "Go argue someplace else if you can't manage that."  
There's a long awkward moment during which none of them speak.

Clint clears his throat from somewhere in the room, presumably the doorway.  
"So… is now a bad time to visit?"


	51. Chapter 51

Steve pauses in the doorway and takes a moment to acclimate to the sight in front of him again. Bucky makes an odd picture now that he's been cleaned up, and no matter how many times he sees it, Steve still just can't get used to this new version of him.  
It's even stranger -more surreal somehow- than seeing him as an assassin, 70 years after his 'death'.  
And _that_ is one hell of an accomplishment.

Bucky's hair is finally clean and combed, but he won't let anyone near him with scissors, or even an electric trimmer, so a haircut and a shave is utterly out of the question. It took nearly a month for him to trust Steve enough to let his hair be washed, and that had been a slow, tense process at best. Now he showers independently, but only because he's told to every morning. Steve has left him a safety razor, even though Tony isn't in favor of the idea. Bucky has yet to use it.

Steve doesn't think Bucky wants his hair long; it gets in his face and in his eyes constantly... but Bucky either can't or won't make the call to do anything about it. Sam has stressed how important it is that he be allowed -encouraged, in fact- to make his own decisions as much as possible, and Steve can definitely see the logic in this. Bucky needs to be the commander in his own life. The problem is that Bucky won't do it.

Buck is just not willing to make decisions at all at this point. He won't express opinions on anything, and he certainly won't argue with Steve for any reason. He wants to be ordered. Led. He's nowhere near things like 'I'd like my hair to look this way' or 'just a trim' yet.

Ever since he decided that Steve was his 'handler' a couple of months ago, Bucky had begun gradually growing more and more quiet and complacent. Now -now that he's no longer convinced that everyone in Stark's tower is trying to kill him or that he has to kill them- he's utterly placid. He simply lets Steve lead him until they hit a limit that he just can't cross.  
Then it's a waiting game until he tips back over the line from unstable to empty again, and they can try to work around this newly uncovered raw spot.  
The emptiness, in Steve's opinion, is worse.

There's never a flicker of true recognition, no memories, no trace of the old Bucky Barnes in his manner. Just this blank, malleable soldier, waiting for orders.  
He just wants one familiar gesture, one smile, one _anything_ to tell him Bucky's still in there somewhere. He'll just have to wait for it ...

For now, Bucky's impressively shaggy mane is pulled back into some messy approximation of a ponytail; bits and pieces falling out across his forehead. It's not quite long enough to stay put and the thick unruly nature of his hair doesn't help.  
One of Tony's ratty old band t-shirts is pulled a little too snug across his chest and shoulders. It doesn't quite fit right, but it's the first piece of real clothing they gave him and Bucky seems attached to it for this reason. He didn't protest the first time Steve took it to be washed, but there was just a brief flicker of a reaction on his face. It was not a pleasant one.  
They've given him several more since, but this one appears to be special.  
A pair of Steve's old baggy blue-plaid cotton pajama pants are cinched like an overinflated fabric balloon around his waist. Someone has rolled up the pant-legs enough that his bare feet poke out at the ends.  
If not for the scarred metal of his left arm, Bucky would almost look like a scruffy, bored college kid, just killing time.

All he really needs, Steve reflects, is a pair of bunny slippers to look completely, deceptively, innocuous. Even now, calm and blank, Bucky could kill a man without breaking a sweat. … And he's wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt, and listening to an audio book.

Steve shakes his head. His life never has been particularly normal….  
At least today they're finally taking a step back in that direction.  
Today, after two full weeks without an episode, without an attack or a screaming fit, he's finally going to get to take those damned restraints off of Bucky's bed and keep them off.

He may or may not tear them in half later so they can't be re-used… he hasn't decided.

* * *

Bucky watches blankly as Steve unhooks and then outright removes the straps that have held him back for almost two solid months. He leans up onto his elbows, the better to watch his handler for instructions. None are forthcoming.  
The look on Steve's face is expectant, but he isn't sure what he's supposed to do. He needs to be given orders.  
He waits.

"...That more comfortable?" Steve asks after several minutes of awkward silence. He is clearly anticipating some kind of reaction or confirmation.

"I don't understand..."

The Soldier doesn't know what kind of response he is meant to give, so against every instinct, he asks.

"Am I being transferred?"

He _can_ ask things now. This handler doesn't punish him; doesn't relegate him to the chair for every misstep.. It's still a bit strange and terrifying, being allowed this new freedom, but somehow… good.

"No, nothing like that. You've been doing really well lately… I- we figured... you'd like to get up and move around instead of having to be tethered all the time. ...Sorry about the straps by the way. That wasn't my idea..."

The Soldier quietly absorbs this for a moment.  
"...Am I being assigned?" He asks tentatively.  
Steve is uneasy, and that makes him uneasy. Uneasy handlers mean a difficult, messy assignment… probably one that will make the quiet voice shout at him. It has begun to chastise him more regularly anytime he lashes out. He isn't sure what it will do if he kills. He doesn't really want to know.

"Assigned? No, you're- _God no_." Steve's sentence crashes to a halt, realizing what the question means. "No, you're never going to have to do that again."  
He shudders a little, involuntarily, at the thought.

Bucky's eyes widen. He looks stricken, shrinking back from the edge of the bed to huddle with his knees up to his chin. Some part of him is convinced that if he doesn't leave the gurney, doesn't actually set foot on the ground, he won't have to face a missionless world. That he won't have to go back into the dark.

He turns pleading eyes up to Steve's face, his posture low and submissive.  
"Send… send me out. I'll do whatever you need. I can still serve. I can do better. There's no need to decommission me. I can still be useful…. _Please_."  
He digs the last word out of a dusty corner of his broken memory. He hasn't ever spoken it that he can recall, but he has heard it used somewhere before.  
This is a word you use to beg. If that is what he needs to do, he will beg.

Steve looks like he's just been struck, and the corners of his mouth twitch down. He isn't sure how he knows, but The Soldier's certain that Steve is about to cry.  
He panics.  
He's hurt his handler. The kindest one he's aware of ever having. He is never, under any circumstances, allowed to harm a handler.

"Y-You wouldn't have to disobey any orders, just please don't put me back in the tube." He should shut up, stop arguing with his handler, and accept this, but his mouth just keeps going without him. He thinks he may be talking too fast, words starting to run together. He can't stop. "I won't cause trouble - like you said. I'll be silent and fast, and no one will see me. I'll do anything you want me to. I will be very very quiet and I won't hurt your allies and-"  
The next thing he knows, he's pressed face-first into Steve's shoulder, one strong hand clutching desperately at the back of his head, the other wrapped like a vice around his back. Steve's hand is fisted into the fabric of the t-shirt. He is shaking.

The Soldier jolts and almost jerks back. He wants to pull away. He's terrified by this sudden contact, sudden confinement... The panic grows and he feels his metal hand clench tightly, ready to strike-

...But there is something oddly comforting, oddly familiar in this that prevents him lashing out. This sudden touch, though unexpected, is not painful. It does not bruise or burn him. It is not meant to hurt or punish. He feels himself collapsing into it before he has made a decision to do so.

There is moisture in his hair. He isn't sure how he knows what this means, but it stirs something deep inside him. A visceral, sick feeling.  
He starts talking again without thinking.  
"I'm sorry… Please-" Bucky pauses, running up against another empty space in his mind. He doesn't know what to ask for. He just wants Steve to stop hurting. He wants to stop being responsible for this bad thing, whatever it is he's done. He doesn't know how to make that happen. "I'm sorry. ..I'm sorry." He repeats.  
It's another phrase he didn't realize he knew until now.

"Don't apologize for anything." There's a ragged breath against the crown of his head. "It's not your fault." Steve mumbles brokenly into his hair. There's something very raw, something painful in the sound of his voice. "Don't ever apologize for this."  
"... I did not mean to- … to cause trouble."  
This causes the hand on the back of his head to tighten compulsively for just a moment. There's a sharp, determined intake of breath. Steve abruptly lets him go.

Steve's face is wet, and his eyes are red as he draws back. He sniffles noisily and retreats a pace or two. He scrubs at his face without seeming to realize he's done it, and takes several deep breaths.

Bucky feels something like broken glass in his chest. Steve's face only makes it worse. He can't think of when he'd have injured himself, but he can't account for this any other way.

Steve is nearly composed, but that is almost worse than the raw pain in his expression just now.  
For just an instant, Bucky thinks of the thin man, the smaller Steve. The faintest thought that he had felt this way before, in relation to this man. That he sat beside a bed once, as Steve has done beside his for weeks. That he felt this broken ugly thing inside him watching a flushed, feverish face and labored breathing. That he waited and hoped.  
… Hope is a foreign thing, but he thinks he almost remembers what it was like. He wants to.

After a moment, Steve holds out a hand to help Bucky down, and though he is still afraid of this aimless, missionless world, The Soldier takes it. He knows he's supposed to. He just doesn't know what to do now.

They stand facing one another for a moment, each simply absorbing the other's presence. Bucky waits.

Steve breaks the silence, turning and gently leading him toward the door. "C'mon… let's get you out of here…" He turns to look over his shoulder. "You hungry?"

Bucky isn't.  
He nods.

Steve clearly wants him to be, and he will do whatever Steve requires. He doesn't think he can stand to see that broken look on his handler's face again.

He's still not completely sure why.


	52. Chapter 52

There's no one in the kitchen when they enter it. Given it's nearly 2 am, Steve's not surprised.  
Neither of them sleeps normal hours anyway, so he'd thought it best to start introducing Bucky to the rest of the tower before the others were around to spook him. He wants Bucky to be comfortable here; to be ok.  
He doesn't want to ever have to resort to restraints again.  
He still feels sick to his stomach thinking about having used them in the first place.

"What sounds good?"

Bucky is looking around the room. He's already staked out all the exits and settled himself in the corner with the best vantage point of the full room and hallway beyond. He has the same uncertain expression on his face that he wore earlier.

"I don't eat…" He says. At Steve's growing frown, he amends: "I never have. I don't know."

"You do eat." Steve says firmly. "You have to or you'll get sick again…"  
Bucky says nothing to this. He had planned to try eating when he was sick and desperate, but he has never, in his memory at least, eaten anything. He is still alive… for some reason. Therefore eating is probably unnecessary after all.  
But he doesn't want to argue with Steve again, so he stays silent.

Steve's frown deepens slightly. He remembers Clint's advice. Baby steps.  
"Tell you what… I'll pick something, ok? I remember what you used to like when we were kids… All you have to do is eat it. Does that work?"

"Ok." Bucky nods.  
He's still getting used to that expression. He thinks he likes it. It's short, clean, and easy. Just two letters. They're still a bit clunky rolling off of his tongue, but most words are. He's not used to being allowed to speak yet. Short is good.

Steve starts to hum a tune while he gathers a few cans and a bag of beans out of the cupboards, adding them to an assortment of measuring cups and a mixing bowl already laying out. The song is jazzy and just faintly familiar. Bucky's foot wants to tap to the rhythm, but it doesn't. The movement would be frivolous, and his training doesn't allow for wasting energy.  
The melody is quiet and indistinct, but it prickles in the Soldier's mind in a way he can't quite ignore. He'd almost swear he knows the lyrics.  
He considers asking Steve if he used to know this song, but it feels odd to ask about his own memories. And he thinks it may cause the upset expression again. He doesn't want that.  
He says nothing.

"It won't be quite as good as the stuff your mom used to make, but it's still pretty good. Tony buys the fancy stuff." Steve has stopped humming, holding out a can to him.  
He takes it, though he has no idea what he's expected to do with an empty tin can.  
_Split Pea and Ham Soup - Homestyle_ the label reads. The words mean nothing to him.

He glances up at Steve, looking for some kind of clue as to his expected actions. Steve just smiles the quiet smile that he's begun to learn means something much more complex than positive emotions. In his experience, most smiles do. They rarely mean anything good.

"Here, you can help." Steve tells him, the mysterious expression still on his face. "Rinse that out in the sink over there, then put it in the blue bin by the door."

The Soldier complies, though he's not initially sure how to work the absurd expensive-looking hardware over the sink. After a moment he figures out that it's motion sensitive. He can't imagine why someone would waste the time and money to create such a pointless device, but he has an objective and he's more interested in completing it properly than he is in asking stupid questions of Steve. He rinses.

He feels an odd sense of satisfaction when he's finally placed the can in the indicated bin. Mission completed successfully - however tiny the mission might be.

When he returns to the counter, Steve is stirring a pot of something that is thick and reddish brown. There are chunks of various things floating in it, which he assumes are some sort of vegetables, and it's begun to bubble. Bucky is dubious about this substance being edible until he catches a whiff of the smell coming from it. His stomach rumbles, startling him, and his mouth begins to water unexpectedly.  
He is abruptly very very hungry.

It must show on his face, because Steve's small smile grows into something that is new to his experience. It crinkles up the entire face and it's huge and bright and warm. Like a flash grenade. It leaves Bucky breathless. He thinks he'd very much like to see it again.

He feels the corner of his own lips tug up in response and forces them to stop, confused by this reaction. The Soldier is not supposed to smile, but Steve has already seen. His eyes go soft at the edges, in a way that Bucky thinks is probably positive.  
"You're gonna love this. Promise." Is all Steve says, turning quietly back to the pot on the stove.

Bucky is determined that he will, even if he's not completely sure what that word means. He will find some way to do what Steve wants.  
He feels an old familiar stirring in him. He is compelled by more than loyalty now, more than obedience. He wants to cause the good smile again.  
It is his new mission.


	53. Chapter 53

It turns out that Split Pea and Ham Soup (with beans) is delicious.

He can't remember ever eating it before, though Steve assures him that he has, but he knows he will remember it from now on.  
The process is not without problems.

He vaguely remembers the video on how to eat, the one he looked up in the safe-house, despite having been close to passing out and violently ill at the time... but he's still only somewhat clear on the procedure. He gets as far as lifting a spoonful of the stuff to his lips before he stymies. It's too hot to safely ingest, but he's not sure what to do about that.  
He studies Steve's movements, inadvertently catching his eye. Steve smiles the small, complex smile - the bad one- but he patiently explains the steps involved.

It's really a fairly simple action, Bucky discovers. Just place food in your mouth, use your teeth to crush it into a manageable state, and swallow. When it is too hot, purse your lips and blow on it until it isn't.  
He repeats this sequence over and over until the bowl in front of him is empty. Steve refills it without comment, and he repeats the process again.  
He's getting a comfortably warm feeling in his midsection, which begins to be mildly uncomfortable by the end of the second bowl. He's quietly grateful when no more is placed in front of him after that. He doesn't think he could refuse to eat it if Steve expected him to do so, and the experience would stop being enjoyable then.  
He doesn't want eating to stop being enjoyable.

* * *

Ice-cream, as it turns out a half an hour later, is also delicious. It is, however, uncomfortably cold. He tries to blow on it, the way they had done with the soup, but this has no real effect.  
He doesn't like the cold. The thoughts of ice. He doesn't want to think about the cryotank. He's been free of it for longer than he thinks he has ever been, and it's almost begun to feel like he will never have to go back.  
With Steve as his handler, maybe he won't.

But Steve is watching him expectantly again. The look he thinks is 'hope' is on Steve's face.  
He has to eat this stuff. Steve wants him to.

He tries to focus on the way the taste (strawberry, Steve has told him) coats his tongue, and to enjoy it. Not to let his mind stray to the cryotank. He is mostly successful.

* * *

He finds himself feeling drowsy, to his surprise, as they finish the desert, sitting on a sofa. Steve tells him it is around 4:30 am.  
Bucky feels his head tipping lazily forward more than once, but he snaps himself upright. He can't fall asleep. He has to guard his handler. He has to- … has to...

Honestly he has no clear objectives assigned to him. There is no reason he isn't allowed sleep, and his handler has made no objection to the idea. ...He just doesn't want to the positive experiences he's had today to vanish when he closes his eyes. He isn't entirely sure why he thinks they will, but something deep in him is terrified of the dark. Terrified that once he closes his eyes, he will be blank again when they open.  
It's happened before, he's sure.

Even so, his head drifts down onto his shoulder not much later, eyes drooping shut, and he is barely aware of it when a blanket is gently draped over his shoulders.

He feels… peaceful.


	54. Chapter 54

The room is in disarray when he comes to. There is shattered glass where there had been a table, and a twisted metal frame that he thinks may be what remains of that table. The sofa is toppled onto its back and there are several fist-sized holes in the wall.  
He realizes that his chest is heaving with exertion and fear, that he's huddled into a corner across the room from where he fell asleep, back pressed into the wall... and that his left hand is half-crushing Steve's wrist.  
He releases it immediately.

"What… what happened?" His throat rasps painfully when he speaks. He doesn't realize he's been screaming for nearly an hour.

"You had a nightmare, I think." Steve tells him gently, rubbing absently at his wrist. His voice is rough too. It sounds too much like it did in Bucky's room, when he was moments away from tears. Bucky hates the sound.  
He glances up at a sudden scuffing noise. The loud one - Tony -, the patient one - Bruce-, and the kind one - Sam-, are all standing to one side of the room now, staring uneasily at him. He can't stand to look at them, but looking at Steve is worse.

Steve's eyes are red again, and while Bucky can't identify every emotion written in them, he can see that most of them are the bad kind. He's hurt his handler again... This time physically if the large purpling bruise on Steve's cheek is any indication.

"I…. I did this?"

"You didn't do it on purpose." Steve is quick to reassure him. He sounds worn down and frustrated. Bucky can tell he's trying hard to hide these things.

"I hurt you." He was supposed to protect Steve. He doesn't remember when this mission was assigned, but it certainly was. The objective blazes clear as fire in his mind. He is failing that mission. "I- I hurt you."

"It's nothing. I'll be fine in an hour or two." Steve absently touches the bruise then pulls his hand away self-consciously.

Bucky feels his pulse elevating and his breathing speeding up well past normal levels again. _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Bad. Bad. Broken. Dangerous. Bad.  
_"I'm sorry..." He knows Steve has told him not to apologize, but he doesn't know what else to do. He has to say _something_. "You should decommission me. I am malfunctioning-"

Steve looks like he's just been hit again. Somehow Bucky has made things worse, but he's not sure how. He shrinks back, plastering his back into the corner, vaguely preparing to bolt. Sam appears over Steve's shoulder, seemingly from nowhere. His face is stern, but not angry.

"Hey, don't talk like that, you hear me? Nobody's decommissioning anybody. Take it easy.  
You're reacting normally to some pretty bad trauma. ...Just because you're able to do more damage than the average guy doesn't mean you're gonna get put down like a rabid dog because you're having trouble dealing with it. You're a just a good guy that bad stuff happened to. Not the other way around. Ok?"

The Soldier shrinks back further from Sam's reassurances, shaking his head. He can't fit any further into the corner, but he's trying to. Sam is too quick to excuse him. To forgive him. He is like Steve this way.  
The Soldier is dangerous. Violent. He cannot be trusted not to harm his handler. He _should_ be put down.

"I hurt… Steve." His voice is growing small and fragile again. He's afraid of himself. "I should not hurt- I am broken."

"You're just a little dinged up. You'll be ok with time." Sam says gently. "Lucky for us, Steve's built like a damned tank too. You didn't break much besides the furniture. No harm no foul."

Bucky looks blank at this reference.  
"I am dangerous." He says resolutely. "I am a weapon."

Steve shakes his head fiercely at this, abruptly leaning forward, his hands ghosting over Bucky's shoulders. His eyes are wet again.  
He wants to grab hold and shake these thoughts out of his friend's head, but he's afraid to touch Bucky, afraid to trigger him. He doesn't want Bucky to suffer anymore.  
His voice is low and angry. "You are _not_ a weapon. You were _never_ a weapon. You were _used_ and the bastards that did it are gonna pay for that in time. Don't you ever call yourself a thing again. Not _eve_r."

Bucky stiffly nods his head, though it's obvious to everyone in the room that he's just obeying an order. Steve feels sick.

"Ok, take-away lesson from this: you've got a ways to go still, but you're gonna get there." Sam interjects. His voice is very carefully level. There's something vaguely soothing about the way he speaks.  
The Soldier doubts he'll ever trust Sam…. Not the way he trusts Steve, certainly, but there is something about him that feels… safe.  
"No more napping on the couch though, ok Barnes?"

"Ok." Bucky croaks out. He's glad that to have an affirmative at his disposal that is short and simple. He doesn't know if he could wrap his mind around anything more complex at the moment.

He lets them help him to his feet, leans heavily into Steve's side all the way back to his room, though he's quite capable of walking on his own. It's his own selfish way of comforting himself. If he thinks he notices Steve leaning back into him, he dismisses it as imagination.

They don't restrain him, but he hears the door locking as they file out again.  
He doesn't sleep again for nearly a week.

He's too afraid to close his eyes.


	55. Chapter 55

Bucky has a new room now, one on an unused floor of the tower. He no longer needs round-the-clock medical supervision, and there's no real point in taking up a hospital room for a (physically) healthy man.  
He isn't ready to leave the tower yet, though.

The echoes of Barnes confined to military med tent in 1944, post rescue, aren't lost on Steve. Bucky doesn't remember though, and he'd rather not relive that part of their history himself.  
He says nothing.

There's nothing on Bucky's floor but a bed, a bathroom, and a bunch of storage rooms full of empty crates, so there's nothing important he can really break if he has 'an episode', as Sam calls them. It's close quarters, but he prefers it that way. Open spaces still annerve him. He likes to know where his boundaries are.

It's a relief, especially, to know he won't accidentally break Steve's arm if he goes into a rage in his sleep. Steve is several floors away, and he's taken to calling via the thing called JARVIS - the strange disembodied voice that fills the tower, something he still doesn't quite understand- before he comes down. This had been Sam's recommendation.

Bucky is really beginning to like Sam.


	56. Chapter 56

"Hey kid, you got a minute to talk?" The one who saved him, Clint, is standing in the doorway. He comes and goes from Bucky's floor freely, though he's been advised to 'knock that shit off, Barton' more than once, for his own safety. Bucky gets the impression that Clint doesn't really listen to anyone but 'Nat', the woman he talks to on the phone regularly. The one who unlocked him. He does still ask before entering Bucky's room though.

"I have a lot of time." Bucky answers. He realizes he's probably supposed to just confirm or deny, but he likes practicing some of the phrases he's heard the others use. It makes him feel more human.

"Cute. You gotta quit listening to Tony so much." Clint rolls his eyes, but Bucky has gradually learned that the way he does it is not actually negative. He's still trying to figure out how this distinction works. "Ok, serious time. I heard about what happened with Steve the other night. You know I've been there too, so here's the thing: I'm all ears. You want to talk about it? Nothing you say leaves this room unless you want it to."

Bucky doesn't really know what there is to say. He's dangerous. It's why he lives here, alone, and not closer to the others.

"I hurt him. ...He's difficult to hurt. ...I'm dangerous."

"So'm I." Clint snorts. "I'm a tough little sonofabitch, don't let the snark fool you. So you accidentally hurt your buddy. It sucks, I know. Doesn't mean you meant to do it. Doesn't mean you can't get past it."

"How?" Bucky turns his full attention on Barton.  
He desperately wants to be able to trust himself. To stop being a weapon. Steve says he is not a weapon. He should not be one. He's trying his best to figure out how to comply.

Clint shrugs.  
"Time mostly. Talk to people. Nat dragged my ass kicking and screaming out of self-pity-land and made me start living again instead of just feeling sorry for myself. … She's another one that's way too hard on herself, though. Irony, thy name is Romanoff."  
He flaps his hand at Bucky when he notices the blank look that sentence earns him.  
"Never mind. Point is, I felt like a monster too. They can tell you you're not til they're blue in the face, won't matter. Doesn't mean shit until you believe it yourself. And that, my friend, takes lots and lots of time."

"Talk to people…." Bucky repeats vaguely. "Who do I talk to?"

Clint shrugs again. "Well I mean, there's me, obviously. You're doing it right now. Or try Sam. He's a counselor - you know what that is?" Bucky shakes his head. "It's his job to help people like us. He talks to you, helps you figure out what's busted up here." Clint taps a finger against his temple. "He wasn't around when I had my problem, but I hear he's good. Steve sure thinks so." Clint grins at him.

Bucky isn't so sure anyone can fix him, regardless of their specialties, but he's convinced to try as soon as he hears Steve's name.  
He trusts Steve and he trusts Clint. If Clint says he needs to talk to someone, he will talk to someone. If Steve thinks Sam is good to talk to, he will talk to Sam.

Clint leans back casually against the door-frame. "Something else to keep in mind, kid... the whole team's behind ya. Not just Cap.  
They're a bunch of assholes on the surface sometimes, but when it counts they're good folks. If you need something, you just ask and somebody will help you out."

Bucky blinks, attempting to reconcile this with the data he has - and can't. He stares at Clint, disbelievingly. He's still a weapon. A monster. He's the story you tell to frighten children.

"Why?" He asks before he can stop himself.

Clint frowns, pushing himself off of the door and crossing the short distance between them. He lays a hand on Bucky's arm and looks directly up into his face.  
"Cause you're a good guy, Barnes, that's why. You got a shit deal outta life, but you're a good guy. We all kinda did, one way or the other. Gotta stick together and watch each other's backs around here."

"You all… protect Steve?" Bucky asks, preoccupied. He's uneasy about this unsolicited touch. He trusts Barton, but any touch at all sets him on edge. He tries hard to ignore the hand.

"We all protect each other, so yeah. Captain Flag-Pole-Up-the-Butt included." Clint grins.

Bucky doesn't get that reference either, but he quietly digests this information.

"Then I'll trust you. All of you." He says, feeling the unplanned upward motion of his lips again. He lets it happen. It seems Barnes _is_ allowed to smile, though he's still not sure if that applies to him yet... Still, Steve seems pleased when he does this, maybe Clint will be too. "Thank you... for talking to me."

Clint's grin grows huge. It's not as bright as Steve's, but Bucky's finding he likes causing this reaction in people. It feels… good.

"Anytime, Tin Man." The hand gently squeezes his arm before letting go. Some dim recollection tells him this is a friendly gesture. A gesture of solidarity. He thinks he likes it after all. "Anytime."


	57. Chapter 57

Natasha returns out of the blue, 6 months after Bucky's arrival in the tower.

It's 3 am and Bucky is roaming an empty floor two above his own, bare feet padding silently over the tile. He can't sleep. He keeps seeing visions of people he doesn't recognize… and people he doesn't want to recognize. He doesn't call Steve.  
Steve is tired and ragged already. If he has finally managed to sleep, Bucky doesn't want to wake him up - but he doesn't want to stay in the confines of his room tonight either.  
He needs to explore, to keep his mind busy, but the tower holds little new or interesting for him. He's only allowed free reign of a few floors and he's already been over and over them.  
He wants the wind on his face, the sky over his head... something he hasn't felt in months.  
He heads for the roof.

* * *

He's barely made it halfway across the surface of the rooftop balcony when he hears the faint scratch of a grappling hook on metal. If not for his training, he probably wouldn't have heard it at all. He freezes as the redhaired woman slips over the edge of the balcony directly across from him, dropping without a sound into a crouch. He drops low to match her, silently wishing he still had the reassuring assortment of weaponry he'd always carried with him before. The only people he knows of who come and go in darkness and silence bring death with them.  
Steve is here. He has to protect Steve.  
Death is not welcome here.

For a moment, he has the advantage, but _only_ for a moment. She jolts when she notices him, and there is a string of muttered swearing in a rainbow of languages. They stare at each other in the dark.

Instead of readying to attack him, however, she slowly stands, hands kept clearly visible, leans her weight into one hip and crosses her arms. It is a deliberately casual pose.

"So...hey, big guy. What're you doing out here? Long time no see. How's the arm?"

He says nothing. She's dangerous, he knows. He remembers the garotte, though most of the rest of their last encounter is a blur. She also knows his code words. He's taking no chances.

"Clint was supposed to meet me out here, but apparently somebody up there hates me, because you're not Clint."

"...Why are you here?"

"I… live here? Well not _here_, here. Obviously I don't live on Tony's roof, but I guess we're gonna be neighbors now."

He bares his teeth at her in silence. She's stalling, but he's not sure why. He tenses in case she moves to engage, but makes no attempt to attack first. He's not supposed to kill her, of that he's fairly sure. This is one of Steve's companions. Clint has talked about her. She knew the code command that freed him. That doesn't mean he trusts her.

"Nat?"  
Clint's voice echoes quietly from the stairwell followed by the closing of a door. Bucky tracks the sound of it without moving. He's glad Clint is here to take charge and tell him what to do. Taking orders is much, much easier than making decisions. Especially when every instinct says to attack the person he's not allowed to kill.

"Over here, bird-brain." The redhaired woman says, never flinching or dropping her gaze. Her face remains neutral. "Thanks so much for being on time to meet me, by the way. Ex assassins are just super fun to run into, first thing when you get home."

Clint pulls up short, spotting the Soldier in the shadows for the first time.  
"Ah, christ... Barnes, stand down, buddy. She's a friend. I told you about Nat, remember?"  
Bucky never takes his eyes from the woman as he eases up to his feet.  
"You did." He answers, perhaps a little too sharply. He really doesn't want to stand down.  
Clint raises an eyebrow at him.  
"She's Steve's friend too, kid. Cool it."

He glances at Clint and drops his stance, but his expression is just faintly mutinous. An order is an order, but he doesn't have to like it. Sam has told him he doesn't have to like anything at all if he doesn't want to.  
He really is beginning to like Sam.

Clint sighs and rolls his eyes.  
"Right... You guys are gonna get along just awesome, I can tell. Don't kill each other, ok? I don't wanna have to explain the blood stains later."

"Hey, I helped Flag boy and Wings track him down to begin with." Natasha scoffs, tossing her hair back over one shoulder. Bucky notices a small silver arrow on a chain around her neck. A tiny enamel charm of Steve's shield hangs beside it.  
She turns and raises an eyebrow at the Soldier dismissively. "If I wanted you dead, Robocop, I'd have let you keel over on your own in Norway. You're _welcome_."

"...Why didn't you?"  
He genuinely wants to know. He can't see any reason for her to want to help him.

She tilts her head for a moment, evaluating him.  
"For starters, because Steve's a moron about you and I like the guy. He wanted you back in as few busted up pieces as possible. I owed him a favor.  
Second, I don't want you dead either, but you put any _more _holes in me, and I might change my mind."

"... I shot you?"  
That, he doesn't remember... but it doesn't surprise him. He's apparently shot a lot of people. What it doesn't explain is why she wouldn't just kill him in retaliation... or at least leave him to die, instead of going out of her way to save him.

"Nat-"  
She talks right through Clint's warning tone, ignoring the question as well.

"-And third, because I felt bad for you, you hostile asshole. Now dial it back soldier, cause I'm tired and I needed a drink like 4 hours ago, so I am in _no_ mood for your shit right now. … Nice shirt by the way."

He blinks at her sudden directional change. The odd quirk of his lip happens again. He can't quite help it. A layer of tension peels away from him, unexpectedly.

"It was Stark's."

She makes a face that mirrors his. It is complex, like the bad smile, but he thinks this one is possibly more good than bad.  
"Figures. Guy's got more money than god and he's giving you his hand-me-downs. Cheap bastard."

He glances down at the shirt. A screen-printed image of the Iron-Man mask fills most of his torso.  
"... I like it."  
It's the first time he's expressed a preference for something in a long, long time. He's not sure why he is telling it to her.

Natasha is almost beside him by the time he looks up. He hadn't even realized she was moving. Clint is right behind her, which is the only thing that keeps him from lashing out sheerly on instinct. He hates to be startled.

She waves lazily in his general direction, indicating he should follow as she passes, and he stares after her, not sure how to feel about her anymore.

Romanoff is like Carter, only… not. There is something smooth and careful, clever and efficient about Natasha Romanoff. Something he likes, in spite of himself, now that she is no longer his target. She doesn't have the same blunt, overwhelming and commanding presence that Carter wields. She's less intimidating somehow… though she's just as dangerous, if not more. He suspects Bucky Barnes would have liked her too. The Soldier isn't quite sure.

"C'mon Barton, let's get the Cranky Soldier here inside before Steve comes looking for him. I'm sure his mother-hen sense is tingling or something."  
The Soldier follows them obediently down the stairs, over the ornate landing, and toward the elevator, with Natasha's voice carrying back to him.

"I'm gonna take a shower, and you and Frosty here better have me a vodka on the rocks ready when I get out."

"Jeesus you're needy, woman."

"Oh shut your face-hole, Clint."  
Bucky thinks he hears the not-actually-negative tone in her voice. He's beginning to recognize it; like a language he once knew but somehow forgot. Sam had called this 'sarcasm'. Tony calls it 'hilarious'. Clint calls it 'ragging on me'.  
"Didn't mama ever teach you: never piss off a lady with a gun?"

"Sure she did. My mama _was_ the lady with a gun."

"...That explains so much."

"Shut up and take your shower, Romanoff, or no booze for you."

"Missed you too, Clint."


	58. Chapter 58

Natasha ends up introducing Bucky to cheap Russian Vodka that night.  
It doesn't even register as an intoxicant to him, just oddly flavored water that burns on the way down, but before long three bottles of the stuff are gone, and Clint and Natasha are laughing and red in the face. They end up watching some kind of terrible children's movie in the common room. He honestly doesn't know what to make of that.  
The drink is familiar, but he doesn't much like the taste. He lets Natasha take most of it from him. He finds himself quietly wishing it was darker… more… brown colored? Maybe stronger? He thinks he remembers something like this, in the dark outlines of a room he can't quite bring to mind. The unfamiliar taste lingers on his tongue.

Natasha, easy and relaxed with the drink, ends up pulling him down onto the couch beside Clint a few minutes into the movie, and draping herself across the two of them; head in Clint's lap, feet in Bucky's.  
Clint is already nodding off, and Natasha soon follows. Bucky is torn.  
He's not allowed to sleep here. Sam told him so. It's too dangerous. He doesn't want to risk the consequences if he has 'an episode'. … But Natasha placed him here. She is Clint and Steve's friend. Their ally. He should listen to her.  
… And he's comfortable.

In the end, he stays. He's fortunately too wound up to be sleepy. He settles for the absurd cartoon thing that Natasha selected, to keep him busy. The movie is stupid and makes no sense, but it is something to watch.

He ends up with a foot half jammed into his sternum at one point when Natasha sprawls out to get more comfortable, but he manages to dislodge it without snapping it off. He's proud of that.

The liquor he ignores.

* * *

Steve about has a heart-attack when he comes through the room on his way to his morning run.

Natasha has materialized at some point in the night and she is sprawled snoring across two laps on the couch, clearly still plastered out of her mind. Clint has his face half-glued to the cushions with drool…. which he imagines Tony will post pictures of as soon as he surfaces this afternoon. The thing that catches him the hardest, however, is Bucky.  
Bucky is just passively sitting there, watching the tail end of some kind of cartoon, quiet, looking bored to death, with Natasha's feet draped across him. One foot is up on his shoulder, nearly poking him in the chin, and the other is comfortably resting on his knee. He shows no indication of even really minding the intrusion into his space, though with Bucky it can be pretty hard to tell.  
Steve's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

"... What did I miss?"

Bucky shrugs and Natasha's foot slides down his arm to rest against his thigh. Shrugging is a gesture he's learning from Clint, and he likes it.  
"They fell asleep. I didn't want to wake them up."  
He glances at the screen. "This movie is-" He wracks his brain for a Tony-ism. "-shitty. It's shitty." Steve glances at the DVD box.

"_Anastasia_? Huh… not something I'd have expected Natasha to watch…"

Bucky scowls at it.  
"That's not how forgetting things works. If it was that easy to remember-" He cuts off, glancing at Steve. He doesn't want to cause the bad smile again. "It's a stupid movie."

"No argument from me. … Do Clint a favor and wake him up before Tony gets a picture of him like that. I don't want to have to keep Clint from killing him."

"Killing is… bad?" Bucky ventures, studying the sleeping spies. He remembers this as something Sam has been helping him to learn. Lives are valuable. He's not supposed to take them lightly.

"Very." Steve nods. "...If you can get out of there without her putting you in a choke-hold, I'll make you some breakfast before I go out."

"I think she's still incapacitated..." Bucky answers, not sure how he's expected to wake Clint. He tries carefully shaking one of the archer's arms, but gets no reaction. He avoids touching Natasha.

Steve is wearing a smaller version of the bad smile when he looks back.

"...That was a joke, Buck." Bucky gives him a blank look in response. "Never mind. C'mon. How does oatmeal sound?"

"Like food?" Bucky mumbles, gingerly shifting out from under Natasha's legs. He's started to feel comfortable mimicking the way the others talk. It feels natural in a way that his usual affirmative or negative is not.

The legs flop limply back into the warm spot he's left behind and Natasha curls into that heat like a cat. Steve smiles fondly and turns to Bucky, ghosting a hand over his back to guide him toward the kitchen. He's learned never to touch his friend, not without permission. Bucky's grateful for it.

"Clint was right. You _are_ spending too much time with Tony."


	59. Chapter 59

He watches Steve pouring a loosely measured stream of oats into a pan and thinks hard about what he observed last night. It feels like it should connect to what he's read about himself- about Barnes- and about Steve... He mentally reviews the experience against what he's learned from watching the Avengers interact, and what Steve himself has said, straining to find the link. He's very close to understanding something... but it's still hazy, still too far away.  
He flinches involuntarily as some barrier he hadn't even been aware of begins to crack beneath this pressure. A dull ache is forming behind his eyes.  
The wall doesn't quite give way, but the fracture grows, and a connection suddenly lights up in his mind. A faint link that he can't begin name the source of. The atrophied muscle of memory flexes and extends weakly.

"Is that what it was like?" Bucky asks softly, almost as if he isn't aware of his own voice. "You and your friend?"

Steve freezes, the pitcher of water in his hands nearly slipping out of his suddenly numb fingers. He has to fumble to catch it, setting it carefully down on the counter before turning to face Bucky. His friend's expression is blank, but there's a note of curiosity in his eyes.

"You mean... me and you? How... _we_ used to be?"

Bucky's face creases a bit with thought, pale eyes vaguely troubled. His gaze turns distractedly back toward the common room, where Clint and Natasha are still visible, still sound asleep. Natasha has her arm curled around the side of Clint's waist and her face is turned up, head squashed into his stomach. One of his arms is flopped loosely over her shoulder. They look very close and very comfortable.  
It touches the something buried inside his brain, scratches away more of the barrier. The indistinct something grows brighter, like a light breaking through stone.

"I… think so?" He studies the pair of them. "If I'm this... Bucky Barnes... ….And you seem pretty sure that I am…. Then yes."

Steve follows his eyes and the bad smile is back in force when the Soldier looks up. It's tinged with something new, though; bitter and warm and complicated. He thinks this might be what remembering looks like.

"Yeah, actually…" Steve says, looking distantly into the pan that he's currently ignoring. "I mean we didn't usually get plastered...- er… drunk." He amends, noticing Bucky's blank face, "...But, yeah, it was a lot like that." He pauses for a moment, before deciding to continue. He can't help himself.  
"I... used to get sick all the time, and you'd take care'a me as much as you could... I'm pretty sure we ended up looking like that at least once or twice by the time we both managed to fall asleep…."  
Bucky considers this in silence. Steve wonders if this will be the end of the conversation. It usually has been before. He desperately wants it not to be.  
He wants to tell Bucky everything. Explain all the details he's missing... but he has to be patient. They're nothing but bedtime stories unless Bucky remembers for himself.

The growing light inside the Soldier's mind is painful. It's becoming too hot, too bright, but still so indistinct. It's overwhelming. The words slip out of him before he realizes they've formed - timid and soft, but resolute.  
"...You're not a handler... are you?"  
The way he says it makes it clear he already knows the answer.

Steve shakes his head, heart in his throat.  
"No, Buck. ...I'm not."

"Then why…?"

"Because I'm your friend."

"I-"  
The light behind his eyes is searing him. It just won't focus and it _burns. _He's having trouble thinking.  
"I don't have- … I don't know how- " Bucky stymies here. He doesn't have words for this. "I don't-..." He trails off, looking to Steve helplessly.

"You'll get the hang of it." Steve's eyes are wet again, but he looks happier than the Soldier can ever remember seeing him. " 'Promise."

The light has begun to pulse. He can't-  
"I have to go. Now." Bucky is up and moving before Steve can say a word. He looks agitated and that's all Steve needs to know to give him space.

Two steps forward, one step back.  
They'll get there.


	60. Chapter 60

"Gooood morning Sunshine!"

Tony does indeed take several pictures of Clint drooling on himself when the two SHIELD sharpshooters passed out on his couch still haven't surfaced by noon. Clint blinks blearily awake in a storm of mumbled swearing in a variety of languages. He looks like he'd really like to stab something and Tony would do nicely.

Steve keeps half an eye on them, just in case, but he just can't bring himself to pay much attention. He has bigger things on his mind.  
Bucky is so close to remembering. So, so close… He can feel it. He's going to get his best friend back. For the first time in months, he can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

"Ugh… for fug's sake, Tony... What're you even doin' up? It's only noon-thirty!" Clint bats the camera phone away from his face, lurching upright reluctantly. He looks a bit like he got hit by a train, and his face is an interesting shade of green.

Natasha, to her credit, barely even looks hung-over. She just hoists herself up, cards through the tangles in her hair and adjusts her rumpled clothes.  
"Stark, you even consider posting that picture online after the hell I just went through building a new identity and I will personally murder you in your sleep so hard your grandkids will feel it."

"Well somebody's in a good mood today. Nice to see you too, Romanoff."

"Oh I'm _sorry_, where are my manners? Good morning, Tony. So nice to see you again. You even consider posting that picture online after the hell I just went through building a new identity and I will personally murder you in your sleep so hard your grandkids will feel it. Is that better?"

"I feel the love. I really do."

She's gratified to see him quietly doing as he's told for all his whining. Tony knows better than to cross her when she's been drinking.

* * *

Natasha, as it turns out, has indeed created a whole new identity. And she hints at several others that she has decided not to share. She has no comment about where she's been, what she did, or who she may or may not have killed along the way - no matter how many times they ask. Her driver's license now reads "Anita N. Rokovia", and the address is somewhere in upstate New York. Beyond that is anybody's guess.


	61. Chapter 61

"So you think he actually remembers anything yet?" Clint asks, leaned back into his seat, hands over his eyes. They're squeezed into a tiny booth at the back of the coffee shop. Steve had wanted to talk to him alone and he's still nursing one hell of a hangover; so downing all the coffee he can get his hands on had seemed like a good idea at the time. That had been before the loud country-music marathon had started over the shop's speakers, and the hipster at the counter started pretending not to hear him bitching about it. None of this is helping his headache.

"I don't know. ...Probably nothing solid just yet, but he's getting there." Steve says, producing a bottle of aspirin and setting it down in front of Clint's tray. The Captain looks hopeful and happy, in a way he hasn't for months, hands wrapping around a chipped mug of black coffee. "He asked me about it this morning - about how we used to be. Startled the hell out of me. I was starting to think he was never gonna even want to know. ...And even better, he's _finally_ dropping the whole 'handler' thing..."

"Thank god for that." Clint mutters, tossing back three tablets and shotgunning an espresso to wash them down, before shoving the bottle back across the table. He starts in on the brewed cup sitting at his elbow next. There are a whole assortment of caffeinated beverages lined up on his tray when he's done with that, ready to be consumed.  
He's probably not really supposed to take the two substances together, but Clint has always been a firm believer in 'if it doesn't kill you, it's probably fine'.  
"That whole thing was startin' to get pretty damned creepy, and he didn't even do it to _me_."

A long pained sigh. "Yeah, tell me about it..." Steve's smile flickers and fades. "I wanted to throw up every time he said it, but that was the only way he was willing to trust me… What else could I do but go with it?"

"Shit happens, Cap." Clint pauses in his coffee marathon long enough to give his companion a long searching look. "Ya didn't get any _good_ options so you used what ya _did_ have. Can't fault you for that. ...I think you made the right call, if it's any consolation."  
Clint downs the current mug in one go and starts stirring creamers into the next one in line. He vaguely wonders if vibrating is a sign he's had too much or not enough caffeine...  
"Could be a hell of a lot worse... Kid's actually doing really well, all things considered."

The smile slowly spreads across Steve's face again.  
"Bucky's a tough one." He says fondly, thinking of better times -when life was a little less complicated and a whole lot harder. "He always was stronger than he gave himself credit for, ever since I've known him… I really… I think he's gonna be ok if we give him enough time."

"He'd better be. He's got every crazy-ass superhero for miles on his team... And a bunch of us regular schmucks too."

"We're going to get him back." Steve says, as if he really believes it for the first time. He takes a long sip of his drink, and sets it down resolutely. "It's gonna happen."

"Damn right." Clint agrees, raising his mug in a toast before tossing it back and draining it in one long gulp.  
"Now somebody change the station in here or I'm taking that kid's 'stache as a trophy." He mutters threateningly under his breath.

* * *

The music selection improves noticeably when Steve pulls off his baseball cap and the barista realizes that _Captain America_ -and some guy with a hangover- _are seated in my shop, oh my god_. Clint takes this lack of recognition a bit personally, but since his favorite song comes on soon after, he's willing to forgo force-shaving the little bastard.

… For now.


	62. Chapter 62

The Soldier spends some time drifting through the unused portions of the tower, but the pain in his skull is only getting worse. He endures it as long as he can before he feels the need to retreat, to bury his face in a pillow and just scream until it's over.

He makes it only a few steps from the elevator before he's dropped to his knees, pain coursing white-hot through his brain. It's burning him alive from the inside-out. Even the chair did not hurt this much.  
His skull is bursting with fragments of light, sizzling through the cold synapses of the Winter Soldier's programming; burning his walls down. It feels like everything is burning.  
He's on fire.  
The dam is bursting; and his mind is filled with disconnected pieces, swirling around each other, impossible to pin down. Faces he should know, voices he can't place. Words that won't form.

Over the roar, he hears JARVIS, the mechanical voice, asking if he needs assistance.

He does.  
God, he does. But he can't find his voice to answer.  
He can barely move.

His head sinks down against the reassuring chill of the tile floor and he tries to remember to breathe.  
It's talking again, but he can't spare the mental power to listen anymore.  
The deluge continues unabated.

Much of it is gibberish.  
That woman could be his mother, or she could be the widow of one of his victims. Was it her he saw, holding a fresh corpse, sobbing in the street?  
-Which time?  
...Did he assassinate that man, or buy a newspaper from him?  
Music he doesn't recognize but knows by heart, flows in tatters around him. The face of an older man is frowning down at him. Is this someone he knew before, or a HYDRA handler?  
A woman lies, unmoving, in an alley. Did he kill her, or is she just a random drunk?  
He doesn't know.

The one thing that's clear, the only thing that he understands, is Steve. Thousands of fragments of Steve.  
Bits of a smile, a cough, the determined set of brows. There are broken splinters of laughter and of tears. There are shards of peaceful moments that mesh and flow around each other. His mind is a kaleidoscope of Steve, backlit by the pulsing, painful strobe of memories dislodged.  
He is drowning in memories; in spilled blood. There is no solid ground in this shifting storm of images, tastes, and smells. Of foreign sounds and ghosting sensations. Every breath is full of strangers that know his name. Everywhere he looks, there are thousands of corpses, made by his hands. They are staring through him. Accusing him.  
He can't escape. There is nowhere to escape to anymore. Here, there is only immolating light that is bursting through every wall ever built in his consciousness.

A terrified sob rips its way out of him, vanishing into the din inside his head.  
His world is tearing itself apart.

He's crumbling.

* * *

When Natasha finds him, he's curled in on himself, head down. He's shaking all over, and sobbing brokenly into the cold tile floor - trying desperately to make sense of it all. There are spirals of crushed and cracked tiles radiating from his left hand - which is currently grinding a fistful of broken ceramic into dust.

"Hey..."

She drops into a crouch beside him ...only to dodge back an instant later as his lethal metal arm swings through the space where her head had just been.  
She rocks back onto her heels, studying him.

His eyes are huge and frightened and he barely seems aware that he's moved. He hugs his arms across his chest, pushing back and away from her. His face is white and his breath is fast and shallow.  
"Don't…. touch me. I'm…. I don't-" The words tumble out of him in a rush. He's halfway to hyperventilating.

"Easy, Barnes." She holds her hands up to show she's unarmed. His eyes follow her movements warily. "Just take it easy. I come in peace." Her voice is very carefully steady. Her face is neutral. "I know it hurts. Just breathe."

"What is happening- ...Why?" He pants out, squeezing his eyes closed against another wave of pain, and images that jangle against each other. His head falls limply forward, dazed, and his vision goes dark for a few moments. It feels like fireworks are exploding inside his skull. He hadn't even known what those were until now.

"...Because, sometimes remembering is a bitch, James. That's why." She gives him a name because she feels like she must… but she can't bring herself to call him Bucky. It's a stupid nickname, really. Besides, they're not exactly close. Formal names it is.

He freezes at this, slowly bringing his head up, where it bobs drunkenly as he tries to focus. He's still trembling head to toe.  
"J-James…?" The name is familiar but foreign on his tongue. It lights a faint new connection in his brain. "Nobody's called me…. that… in … in…"  
His body gives way and he starts to collapse, but she's faster than he'd have given her credit for. Surprisingly strong hands are under his shoulders before he reaches the floor, easing him down before he falls down. His head ends up limply dropped into her lap, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his face.  
"A long time, I'm guessing." Natasha murmurs, gently brushing the hair away. He looks vulnerable and raw in a way that she never would have expected after the bullets he's put in her. Pale blue eyes slowly lift up to meet hers before drifting distractedly away, over her shoulder. They drift closed as he takes a slow, ragged breath.  
"My name…" He breathes softly, as if it were an incredible revelation, "is… Bucky."

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_**Yes, I know it doesn't actually work this way in real life with amnesia and memory loss. However, when you have comic-book science tinkering with your brain, all bets are off for normalcy to begin with.**_

_**In this case, they constructed walls in his mind to keep his soldier personality separate from what was left of the rest of his memories. (They couldn't quite erase them, because Bucky's a stubborn little SOB). Those walls are finally breaking down, and this is the result.**_


	63. Chapter 63

The faint hum of a lullaby echoes through the elevator shaft as they reach Bucky's floor. Natasha is singing softly to the man cradled in her lap, in what sounds like Russian, as the doors open. Her eyes flick up to the two men inside, but her voice continues without pause, steady and gentle. The melody is slow, lilting, and just a bit haunting.  
Bucky's eyes are closed, and he could be asleep... except that he's murmuring restlessly and soaked with sweat. Clint blanches, taking a step back and a moment to collect himself. Steve drops to his knees in an instant. He doesn't dare touch Bucky, not when he's like this.  
He doesn't know what to do... but it kills him to do nothing. He stares at his friend helplessly.  
"Is he... alright?"

The song trails off to a quiet end.  
"Let's get him into a bed before we have this conversation. I can barely feel my legs anymore…"

Clint takes the right arm, Steve takes the left. Between the two of them, they carefully hoist an unresponsive Bucky Barnes up between them and carry him the remaining few yards to his bedroom.

Natasha waits in silence until they return, the door closed quietly behind them.

"He's better now than when I texted you, but... he got hit with this like a ton of bricks." She says, before Steve can ask again. "JARVIS sent out a 'possible distress call' message to anybody in the tower, namely me, about an hour ago. I hauled it up here and by then he was already freaking out and massacring the tile…" She pauses, studying her feet for a few moments too long. "...He's probably gonna be down for a while."  
She cranes her head up to hold Steve's eyes, hating to be the bearer of bad news… again.  
"Look… I don't want to get your hopes up... but I think he's starting to remember everything."

Steve furrows his brows, turning to glance at the door for a moment before turning back to her.  
"But that's... good, though… right?"

Natasha looks pained. "Yes and no. The problem is, I think he's remembering _everything_. All at once. …Even the really nasty stuff, from the sound of it."  
She notices Clint flinching as she says it, a barely visible movement. If she didn't know him as well as she does, she might have missed the reaction entirely. She imagines this has to hurt... watching somebody else go through your worst nightmare, only much, much worse. When he says nothing, she continues.  
"... And I could be wrong - but let's be honest, when am I ever wrong?- it seems like it's all just... loose in there. Like he's got no context for anything. He remembered that he's met me, but not the where or how or when…"  
Steve looks like he's swallowing broken glass, but he nods silently, accepting one more hurdle in the road to be overcome. Now that she thinks about it, this is really his approach to everything.  
"Look, Steve… I know this isn't really what you want to hear, but...I don't know how long it's gonna take him to put the pieces together. It could be tomorrow, or it could be another six months… It could be years… maybe not at all. Honestly, I have no idea… " She glances at Clint, but she's speaking to both of them. "Are you ready to deal with that?"

"Whatever it takes to get him through this." Steve answers without hesitation, even if he looks like he's about to be sick.

Behind him, Clint nods, stone faced.

"Whatever it takes."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Sorry for the slowdown in uploading, I haven't had a lot of time to write or proofread for the last several days. There will be a fairly large chunk of chapters coming up in the next upload so you should have plenty to read to keep you busy if I don't post for a couple of days :)**_

_**(Also, don't worry, things won't get too much darker from here. Bucky's on the way to recovery at this point.)**_


	64. Chapter 64

It's quiet inside the Winter Soldier's skull now, buried in heaps of fractured memories. The storm has died down.

HYDRA hadn't bothered trying to be efficient when they'd wiped him; just smashed everything apart and threw it away. Whatever was left, they hid behind walls. The more times they erased him, the more and more pulverized the images became. The more and more walls they built.

There are no walls now.

It takes him a while to realize that the pieces are still shifting, still moving. Squeezing themselves together. Blending into one another. They are starting to mend themselves.  
Slowly bits and scraps of faces -of memories- straggle themselves into strands, begin to weave into a fabric of who he was. Who he is.

And it _is_ slow. It is agonizingly, _infuriatingly_ slow.  
But it's happening.

He's healing, bit by bit. His mind may be shattered, but his brain is rebuilding.  
Super-serum fueled healing does have its benefits…


	65. Chapter 65

_Dancing. He's... dancing. With a girl. A pretty girl. Her name is…. Samantha. Samantha Hogan. He knows the song but he doesn't know what it's called anymore.  
__He waits, but nothing comes back. Apparently that memory is simply gone.  
__He's not a soldier. Not yet. But soon, he will be. He isn't sure how he knows this, but it feels certain.  
__To his left, he sees a thin blonde… 17?, trying vainly to make conversation with a disinterested redheaded girl. He shouldn't ask this girl out with them again… He doesn't know her name anymore. Maybe he never did._

* * *

_**Steve? Steve! ...Dammit, don't you dare die on me, you little shit!**_

_He's scrabbling through a drawer in a room he doesn't recognize, digging for… for what? He doesn't know until his hands stray across it and the needed medicine is ripped from the drawer._

_**Deep breath, now. Breathe, kid, come on. **_

_He's pushing the thing… inhaler? into the boy's hands, the little blonde, forcing it up to his lips. There are several ragged inhalations and a long ugly cough, but the harsh, painful wheezing that has echoed out of the boy's chest slowly eases enough that the danger is past. Something sharp and warm cuts through his own chest in response. He's terrified, he realizes. Terrified and relieved and protective and a thousand other things he can't name._

_**I swear to god, Steve, you ever scare me like that again-**_

* * *

_He's standing over 5 fresh corpses. His mind is cold and rigid. There is only the mission. The voice he recognizes as his own is screaming inside his head, but no one else seems to hear it._

_**No no no no no no**_

_Two of the bodies are small. They are-_

_**What did I do... they're just kids, why would I-**_

_His body turns away, uninterested in its own handiwork.  
__His mind is burning up again. It explodes into white light and then-_

* * *

With a sharp, audible gasp, he's bolt upright... in his bed... in... the tower… in New York?  
He thinks he can still feel the blood, hot and thick, on his hands; but there's nothing there when he looks.  
Slowly, everything he's known for the last 6 months flows back over him, as he works to catch his breath. It doesn't quite add up, this new reality and the bits and pieces of the one he knew… but maybe it will with time…

He hears something breaking and it takes several moments to realize he's crushing the edge of the bed-frame beneath his metal fingers. It takes several more to force them to unclench enough to release the splintered wood.

He braces for the inevitable flood of Avengers, coming to check on him. He waits for the noise, the chaos. Grits his teeth against it.

Nothing happens.

He wonders, vaguely why no one has appeared. Someone should have, certainly... But then he doesn't really care why they leave him alone - as long as they do. He has a lot to sort out, and the quiet helps.  
He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, slowly touching down on the hard wooden floor below. It's a little like learning to walk all over again.  
His heart is still hammering in his chest, but he feels… alive. Alive as he hasn't in over 70 years.

His name is…. James Buchanan... 'Bucky' ...Barnes.

… And god _damn_ does he need to shave.


	66. Chapter 66

The face that looks back at him from the mirror isn't quite his own; even freed from the mangy thatch of hair that had grown over it. He's glad at least that he still remembers how to shave, even if this dinky plastic thing Steve gave him is just barely up to the task.  
He studies his own face closely, taking in the changes. He _is_ Bucky Barnes alright, but… at the same time, he's not. This new self is a sadder, thinner, harder version of himself. Older... though that thought puts a grim smile on his face. He knows, by rights, he really should be dead or close to it by now. Tony's made enough jokes about his age for him to be sure of that; no matter what else happened in between. 96 years old,and still alive… _Not for lack of trying…_

He turns away, trying to put this out of his mind as he pulls the clammy t-shirt over his head and balls it up, throwing it into the hallway. The rest of his clothes follow suit. He's a mess of sweat and the smell radiating off of him even offends his own nose. A hot shower is definitely in order, and will hopefully help settle his mind and let him think. Maybe things will make more sense when he's done.


	67. Chapter 67

"Sleeping Beauty's up and about, just so you know." Tony remarks, meandering through the common room with an enormous mug of coffee (that could probably strip paint) in one hand. The other is holding a Starkpad, with security footage of Bucky lurching up in his bed cycling on it.

"Doing anything interesting?" Natasha asks in a tight, forced tone. She hasn't yet moved, but there's a palpable tension hovering over her.

The team as a whole has agreed to give Bucky some space when he comes to, and see what he does. They are ready to assemble at a moment's notice if he needs help, but Sam is firmly of the opinion that crowding him now would be far too overwhelming. After a memory episode like the one he's just had, he'll probably need a lot of breathing room, and a gentle re-introduction to the group. They have to try to let him come to terms with things at his own speed.

….That was five days ago and Bucky's spent the whole time sleeping fitfully and muttering to himself.  
While they all still agree it's necessary to do this, none of them particularly like it.

To say that the Avengers are on edge would be an understatement.

* * *

Steve is slowly accumulating a small snowdrift of compulsively shredded napkins on the coffee table. He's gone through at least 6 packages of the things so far. He doesn't appear to realize that Bruce has quietly restocked them about a dozen times.

Natasha is mentally reviewing 200+ ways to kill a man with a paperclip. This is her 8th time through the list. She was starting to invent new ones.

Clint has been sharpening the same knife for the last 45 minutes. He spent twice as long on the last one, and about the same amount of time on the one before that. The whole collection could probably cut glass at this point…

Bruce has been spending a lot of time meditating, sipping tea… and occasionally vanishing into the gym to take out some frustration. Natasha estimates he'd be halfway to nirvana by now, if not for the Other Guy threatening to come out.

Tony has been downing coffee like water - but then again… it's Tony. That could be just because it's Thursday.  
What gives him away is his compulsive scanning of the security footage of the tower, waiting for signs of life. He's been asking JARVIS for updates every 20 minutes for the last 5 days.  
He also hasn't really slept since Bucky's latest collapse, and it starting to show around his eyes.

* * *

Stark hits a few buttons, talking as he does.

"He was headed for the bathroom, last I decided to be a stalker. Leseee, anything new? ...Oooh, _hello_. Frosty the Snowman is shaving off his santa beard. That's definitely new."

Natasha tugs the tablet down in an instant and looks for herself -Steve and Clint crowding in at her elbows - pretense of nonchalance forgotten.  
Tony stands back and lets them look. He can see well enough standing over the group to get the gist.

Sam is at work and Bruce is meditating. None of them are brave enough to disturb Dr. Banner's 'quiet time' - even for a Bucky update.  
The two of them will just have to hear about this second-hand.

The man on the screen is indeed freshly clean shaven, examining his face closely in the mirror. He looks almost a decade younger without the beard. Though he still has traces of the hunted look he's worn for the past several months, there's a life in his eyes that has been missing for much, much longer. Steve's breath catches.

The tiny Bucky on the screen scruffs a hand critically through his hair, then turns away from the mirror, examining his clothes and making a face.  
Natasha gives an appreciative whistle as the t-shirt comes up over his head. Clint averts his eyes.  
The figure disappears as he steps through into the shower area. A pair of grubby pajama pants come flying through the shot a moment later, on their way to the hall.

Natasha's eyes abruptly slam up towards the ceiling when what looks like a pair of boxers follow right behind,"-Oh geeze-", as her fingers slam the power button the tablet; avoiding eye contact with Steve as it shuts down.

She coughs awkwardly.  
"Well… that was… …. a thing..." She mutters, handing the StarkPad back to Tony, who just drifts out of the room, sipping at his tar-like coffee and tossing out instructions to JARVIS. Most of them seem to involve emergency alerts and upping the privacy restrictions on the bathrooms.

Steve clears his throat, and somehow manages to look even _more_ uncomfortable than she does.  
"...Let's just… let's give him a while before we check in again."

Clint shakes his head. "-Can I just say now, I _never_ needed to see that much of Barnes... and I suddenly feel like I need to hit the gym?"

"...Is it super awkward if I take a moment to just say '_daaaaaaamn'_?" Natasha adds, raising her eyebrows suggestively. "Your boyfriend has got it going _on_, Rogers."

Clint throws his hands up in exasperation.  
"For christ's sake, Nat! _Yes_, it's awkward... and weird and - god- just save the eye-fucking for later, would ya?"

"_He's __**still**_ _not my boyfriend, _for the 5th time." Steve looks distinctly uncomfortable to be having this conversation, _again_. "But you wouldn't be the first person to tell me that… Every dame in Brooklyn wanted a piece of Bucky before the war." He shrugs "He's always been popular..."

"When he's not trying to murder you - yeah, he's pretty ok."

"Like you have any room to talk, Nat?" Clint interjects again, arms crossed over his chest. He's only half teasing.

"I'll have you know I'm a goddamn ray of sunshine and unicorn smiles at all times, Barton."

"Right… sunshine and unicorn smiles. And hell in high-heels, with a gun in each hand."

"Damn right, I am."


	68. Chapter 68

_**Author's note: So it's clear, in the last chapter, the team was checking to make sure Bucky was ok, not trying to creep on him. It just got awkward for everybody when he decided to shower at roughly the same time. (There are no cameras in the bathrooms at all, they were just able to see in from the doorway of the sink-area because JARVIS is keeping tabs on Bucky for them. The toilet/shower area is separate and has it's own door.)**_

* * *

Bucky takes a long time in the shower.  
The heat of the water is as soothing as he'd hoped it would be, but there are scars in places that he doesn't remember being injured and every new one he discovers bothers him a little bit more.

The one by his navel looks like a bullet wound, as does the puckered graze-line on the left side of his rib-cage. The gash on his calf was probably a bayonet. He doesn't even know what to make of the spray of burn scars scattered over his right ankle. Had he been too close to a grenade explosion? How would he even still have a foot _left_ in that case? And … are those claw-marks?

He tries to ignore this unfamiliar network of old and new scars scattered across his body -particularly the ones that line the seam of flesh and metal on his left shoulder- and rubs another generous squirt of shampoo through his hair, letting the warm suds drip over his face for a moment before bothering to rinse it off.  
The familiarity is soothing. He's done this a hundred-thousand times before, even if he's not sure exactly when. It's something solid, something real that he can stand on to get his bearings.  
He lets out a long breath as the heat flows down his hair and over his shoulders, pooling at his feet. Eyes closed, he leans his face into the cool tile of the shower wall, and winces at the memory of the light that was burning him alive the last time he touched his forehead to ceramic like this. He's getting really, _really,_ tired of these memory bursts, kicking him in the teeth when he least expects it.

A name forms obligingly in his mind when he tries to find a focus for his anger, his frustration.  
_Pierce. _ And then, a moment later. _HYDRA.  
_He shudders, crouching down against the wall until the ugly chill that word sends up his spine has passed.

_They did this. They did this to me.  
_The voice is back, but it's his voice now. He knows it is. Angry and dripping with Brooklyn drawl. There's a fire to it that he barely remembers having.  
It overlaps with his own inner voice, dropping in and out of sync until they're one and the same. It's a little like tuning a radio with numb fingers, awkward, stiff, and slow. He suddenly feels more whole than he has in a long time.  
_...They ripped me open, took me out and shoved something else in. They broken me apart and- and-  
_The passed time hits him like a wall, taking his breath away. He blinks against it, wiping water out of his face as he staggers up to his feet. His eyes are blurred and stinging with tears he didn't realize were there until they fell, bitter against his skin.  
_75 goddamn years. They took 75 goddamn __**years**_ _from me. … Everybody I knew is dead. ...I might as well be a fuckin' ghost._ He laughs suddenly, short and harsh, under his breath - realizing what he's said. _God...I already am, aren't I? I'm nothin' but a bad ghost story._

He has to brace himself against the wall to keep his feet as the weight of it settles on him. Both arms locked, he lets this all sink in, flowing over him like the water over his skin. He doesn't have it all back yet. He might never retrieve some of it… but what he's got _hurts_. He's lost _so much. _He's taken _so much_ from people he doesn't even know.

His head drops down against his elbows and he takes a deep breath, forcing down the vertigo that's threatening to take him over again. He's stronger than this, he reminds himself. He is not going to faint like some movie dame. He is going to face this down and he's going to deal with it like a man. He's not going to lean on Steve anymore-

_-Steve._

His head whips up so fast that he almost overbalances, eyes wide with realization. Steve…. God, what has he put Steve through?  
Not only did he try to _kill_ the guy, but then he up and vanishes for months right after. And what does Steve get back once he finally catches up? A broken pile of nothing, that's what.  
He gets to watch his best friend stumble around like a zombie for months, no recognition - nothing but blank stares…. and fist-shaped holes in the walls… the nightmares, the screaming, the random panic attacks...  
A time-bomb with a hair trigger and empty eyes. That's what Bucky's been.

"Oh my god…" He groans, letting his head fall forward onto his arms again. He wants to sink right through the drain and disappear.

That does it. That absolutely _does it._ He's going to get through this and he's going to start _right goddamn __**now**_. He switches the water off decisively, firmly planting both feet on cold tile as he steps back out into the world.

* * *

He throws on fresh clothes with barely a thought as to what he's doing, heading barefoot for the elevator, still dripping.

_**Where to, Sergeant Barnes?**_ The mechanical voice asks conversationally as he steps in, pleasant elevator music piping up as the doors slide shut. JARVIS has long-since stopped startling him.  
He barely lets it finish the sentence before asking. He can't risk losing his nerve.

"Where's Steve?"

_**Captain Rogers is currently on Floor 24 - common room. Also present: Tony Stark - Creator, Clinton Barton - Hawkeye, Natasha Romanoff - Black Widow.**_

A persistent wet hank of hair is stuck to his forehead. He flicks it aside absentmindedly.

"Take me there."


	69. Chapter 69

"We've got company incoming-"  
Is all Tony get a chance to say, eyebrows shooting up where he's been tooling around with a StarkPad, before the door opens behind them and the movie none of them were watching anyways is completely forgotten.

A dripping wet Bucky Barnes, in an ill-fitted T-shirt and a pair of Steve's blue jeans, takes a hesitant step into the room. He pauses in the doorway, uncertain, as every eye in the room turns to him.

Clint and Natasha are watching him in silence, both of them with a mask-like calm hiding whatever reaction they may have. Tony is clearly wary and a little worried.

And Steve... Steve is just being Steve.

He's openly staring, and the look on his face is so broken, so nakedly, desperately hopeful, that it's all Bucky can do not to turn right back around and run for his room. Maybe hide there forever, so he never has to see that look on Steve's face again. He steels himself and stands up a little straighter instead.

"... Bucky?" Steve is halfway off the couch, like he just can't sit still, but he's afraid to get too close.

"Hey punk." Bucky manages to choke out, self-consciously rubbing a hand up and down his metal arm, a nervous little smile on his face as he brings his eyes up level with Steve's. "Sorry to keep you waiting..."

Steve's across the room in less than half a breath, and Bucky is carried straight off of his feet by the force of Steve colliding with him, dragging him up into a tight bearhug. He realizes that Steve is shaking. …And he is too. Neither of their eyes are dry.

"God, I missed you." Steve mumbles, voice cracking.

"The feeling's mutual, kid." Bucky says softly, bringing his flesh hand up around his friend's back and fisting it in the fabric of Steve's shirt. He's still afraid to touch Steve with the metal hand. That thing has done nothing but kill since he's had it. His left arm hangs loose and uncertain at his side.

After a moment, he lets his head come to rest against his friend's shoulder, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and sagging a bit with relief. "I missed me too…"

"See?" He vaguely hears Clint muttering out of the side of his mouth. "Didn't need to use a goddamn metal pole to the head. Take notes."

"Shut up, my way totally worked too." She mutters back. "And it's way faster."

Bucky is way too happy to care what the hell they're talking about. If it's something he's supposed to know about, either they'll tell him later or he'll remember on his own eventually. Right now he's just glad to be back.


	70. Chapter 70

**Part 4**

* * *

Bits and pieces continue to fit back together over the next few months. Bucky's largely back in his own head now, but he still gets confused, still freezes up when something triggers an ugly memory that he doesn't want back. Every now and again, something will pop back into place, and remembering will take his breath away all over again.

The nightmares haven't stopped. If anything, they're worse now that he remembers. Instead of just blacking out and waking up in another room, a path of destruction in his wake; now he's present for each and every visceral moment of fear, of death, of pain. He's reliving executions, torture; and he's watching his own hands carry it out.  
He thinks blacking out might have been better, sometimes.

They don't talk about the train, or the mission surrounding it. Steve sticks to the good memories, the happy times. Sam helps him wade through the bad.

* * *

His first session with Sam after 'the big break' as it's now called, is a quiet, awkward affair. What do you say to someone you chest-kicked off a carrier into a freefall? Who you'd already tried to assassinate multiple times before that? Who then spent months of their life tracking you down, only to have you attack them _again_, only to spend still more months trying to untangle the broken, twisted mess inside your head like you hadn't already tried to murder them half a dozen times?  
Somehow 'thanks' just doesn't seem to cover it...  
For a while, he just says nothing at all, awkwardly staring at his hands instead.

It's strange, knowing he used to be able to charm his way out of anything, to remember all the times Steve used to rib him that he could get away with murder… And now that he literally has, it makes him sick to think how lightly they joked about it then.  
He feels dirty and broken and worthless. Nobody should like him - nobody should forgive him. But they have. For some reason he may never understand, they have.

He's doing his damnedest to deserve it.


	71. Chapter 71

There's a hearing about a month after 'the big break'. Word has gotten out about him, somehow or another, and people want answers. While he's not required to speak in his own defense, the others make a strong argument for him.  
Fortunately, they have a lot to work with.

He's a decorated WWII veteran with a history of valor, and his capture, torture, and eventual forced service by HYDRA are well documented. Sam testifies about his mental state and the improvements he's made. Bruce provides blood tests and physical reports showing some of what was done to the Winter Soldier to make him compliant. Steve gives a long, eloquent speech about Bucky's caliber as a human being, and even Clint gets a little misty-eyed at that.

In the end, he's acquitted of all charges.

Especially when Captain-_freakin_-America, Tony Stark (head of Stark Industries), and most of what remains of S.H.I.E.L.D. are firmly behind you, things tend to weigh in your favor.

* * *

He sets foot outside for the first time in nearly a year on a warm spring morning, a few weeks after the dust has settled. The sun is nearly blinding, especially when it glints off his metal wrist... but the air is clean and fresh and the sky is blue and clear. He smiles to himself, squinting up at it.

With Steve beside him, he runs. Just runs because he can. Because he wants to. Not from anything, for once; not to an objective. He just runs for the rush of the movement, the solid familiarity of doing this with his best friend. The feeling of the wind in his face.

When he laughs out loud for pure joy, caught up in his new freedom, Steve joins in.

It's the most peaceful he can ever remember feeling.


	72. Chapter 72

"You know… Bucky… it's easier for me to help you if you say something." Sam says, after they've sat for a long time in silence. "We can start easy, if you want. How's your day going? One word answer's all you need."

Bucky starts to make eye contact... but he can't quite do it. Sam's eyes are too kind, too understanding. They only make him feel like more of a bastard. He settles for looking out the window over Sam's shoulder instead.

"Good." He breathes out a humorless laugh and slumps down a little in his seat. "I'm … actually pretty good."

"You look good. Did you go for a run today?"

"Yeah… I- a short one. With Steve, this morning."

It takes effort to pry the words out of himself, to make himself talk. He can't imagine that it matters much if he ran today or not, but it's something to talk about. Something to say. He goes with it as much as he can.

Bucky likes Sam. Sam is a lot like Steve, which earns him points in Bucky's books, right out of the gate. He's warm and kind, laughs easily, and he can hold his own, even among the Avengers... which is no small feat. He puts everyone else's good above his own, and he's very, very good at helping people. Just like Steve.  
Even before he remembered who he was, Bucky had come to like Sam. He didn't really know why at the time, but he had done it just the same.

He really hadn't known who Steve was either, but he'd known there was something special, something important about him. It was why he'd decided, unprompted, that Steve was his handler. Handlers were to be trusted. They gave you missions, gave you purpose. They guided you. It was the only way he knew how to trust. The only relationship he could understand.

He's keenly aware of how very, very sick that is.

In Sam's case, he'd liked that this stranger came into Steve's life and took care of him, especially when Bucky wasn't there to do it. Sometimes in ways Bucky had never been able to.

Sam protected Steve, and anyone who had looked out for Steve had to be good. It was just that simple.

If he's being completely honest... he likes that Sam looks out for him, too - but that doesn't stop him feeling like a dirtbag for it, after everything that's happened between them.

"Bucky? … You ok?"

He realizes he's been drifting and forces himself to himself focus. He'll have plenty of time to wallow in self-pity and loathing in his room later.

"Sorry. Just thinking." He says quietly, sitting up a little straighter. "What were you saying?"

"I asked if you've been sleeping any better."

He drops his eyes onto his hands, fidgeting restlessly in his lap and smiles compulsively.  
"No… not really. No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He takes a deep breath, worrying the tip of one metal finger between those of flesh and blood.

He does. Of course he does. He wants to get it out of him and just for one night, close his eyes and not see blood and death painted on the backs of his eyelids. He wants just one peaceful, restful night's sleep.

"Yeah…" He murmurs, almost inaudibly. The hand whirrs lazily as he shifts restlessly in his seat.

_If only it was that easy…_

"But I don't think I can."


	73. Chapter 73

"Hey, Tin-Man." Natasha looks up with her usual cryptic smile, from a frankly enormous mug of green-tea, as he comes through the kitchen.

Bucky's still damp from the shower and his hair is sticking, stringy and wet, all over his neck. It's annoying... but at the same time, he can't quite make up his mind what to do about it.

His old haircut seems out of place. It's not 1945 anymore, and he's not that man anymore. At the same time, neither is he the Winter Soldier anymore... so he's really not sure the long-haired thing is working either. He's just doing his best to ignore it for now.

He's also sporting… with probably more pride than is strictly necessary, his first hand-picked pieces of clothing in 70 years. It's just a water-speckled grey tanktop featuring Steve's shield across the chest, and a pair of grey sweats, but they are _his_ and that means a lot more than he'd have expected it to.

"Hey, finally a nickname I recognize." He gives her a shadow of the old Bucky smirk, fishing a box of chinese-food leftovers out of Tony's massive refrigerator, then leaning back against the closed door. "I have no damned _clue_ what half the stuff Stark calls me means."

"You are weak in the way of the nerd." She says with another mirrored smile, quirking an eyebrow at him and taking a long languid sip of tea.

He blinks at her, trying to figure out if she's teasing him. After a few seconds he decides she's definitely doing this on purpose.

"Aaaand I'm lost again."  
He rolls his eyes, turning around to the microwave.

He puzzles for a few seconds about how long to cook the food, humming another tune that he can't quite remember how he knows as he punches buttons. He cranes his head over his shoulder to keep up the conversation while he waits.

"According to Steve, I have at least 50 years worth of movies to catch up on, which means I'm probably never _gonna_ catch up, free-time or not. I don't even know if I was active when half of this crap came out. They don't let ya watch much in cryo…"

He's bad at talking to Sam, godawful at not starting arguments with Tony, and he's a little uneasy around Bruce… but Natasha is one of the few people in the tower he can just _talk_ to. It comes naturally. He appreciates that more than he can say.

"Let me introduce you to IMDB later, Frosty. It'll change your life."

"See that one I got." He grins like a smoother version of Steve and she can't help laughing a little into her mug. "Tony had me watch that last week. The fat snowman with the magic hat, right?"

"I love how this is said without a trace of shame."

"I got enough to be ashamed of, lady, why worry about a dancing snowman? You want me to sing it for ya? I sound like a dying chicken, but I got lots of enthusiasm." He turns back to the microwave to retrieve his food, miming an opera solo as he does.

Natasha snorts and almost spills her tea down her shirt.  
"I take it back." She sets the mug down before she drops it. "I take it all back. You are one of us, Barnes. Well nigh on being our king. Bucky Barnes: One Armed Bandit - King of the Nerds."

"What, you thought I hung out with Steve because I've got a thing for asthmatics?" He drops into a chair opposite her with the take-out and a bottle of water, prepared to dig in. "Man, I'm better at this 'playin' it cool' thing than I thought." He twirls a forkful of noodles and pops them into his mouth, waggling his eyebrows at her over the carton.

This time she really does spill her tea.


	74. Chapter 74

The dream is different this time.

This isn't a memory, it's… He doesn't know what it is.  
He knows it isn't real. It can't be real. It shouldn't be real... But it _feels _real.

He finds himself standing on the bridge again... but everything has changed. There are no survivors here. There are no frightened civilians running, no screaming. Everything is just… still.  
He isn't masked or muzzled now. Just standing there, barefoot in hand-me-downs, surveying the carnage.

Everyone he'd come here with is dead behind him. Others lie ringed before him, faces frozen in shock or pain where they fell.  
He realizes there are faces he recognizes, friends, among the dead. He backs away, eyes wide.  
There is blood dripping from his left hand.

He sees the wreckage of the Iron Man suit to his left, Clint's bow broken in half to his right. Sam's wing, the one he ripped off on the Project Insight carrier, is sticking out from under an overturned car.  
The worst thing, though, is Steve. He sees the body just past the dropped shield which is dinged and stained a dark rust-red.

Steve is dead. The vacant eyes stare through him, the bloody, bruised throat is twisted at an impossible angle. The betrayed look on the dead man's face cuts through Bucky's chest like a knife. His voice catches in his throat. It won't come out. He backs away as far as he can, horrified, and stumbles into the pile of corpses just behind him.  
He's falling, but he never seems to hit the ground.  
He tries to scream over the wind.

The next instant he's cowering, screaming, plastered into a corner of his bedroom. The bed is upended and three feet from where it should be. The room is empty in the semi-darkness.  
He slumps down to the floor, head in his hands, shaking with fear.

"It wasn't real. It wasn't real. _It wasn't fuckin' real_."

He hears footsteps in the hallway, but they're not Steve's heavy tread. There's a quiet knock.

"I'm fine." He grits out, head still down. "Didn't mean to wake anybody up... Sorry."

The door opens and Clint's head appears around it.  
There's a long silence as he takes in the damage to the room before he steps inside, shutting the door behind him.  
"You got a funny definition of 'fine', Barnes."

Bucky appreciates that Clint doesn't try to touch him. Doesn't even cross the length of the room between them. He just squats down beside the overturned bed so they're at eye level, and waits.

"Was just a dream." Bucky mutters, embarrassed. "Bad one. I…I shouldn't'a gone bonkers, though."

Clint sighs, dropping back onto his rear and splaying his legs out in front of him. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck self-consciously, crooking one knee up. He looks a little like a very serious 5-year old.  
"...Look, Nat's the only one I've told about this, so keep it under your hat… but I still get 'em too."

Bucky's head comes up to study the man across from him as he absorbs this, one arm crossed loosely over his chest.  
"So what d'ya do?"

"Me?" Clint smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I cry like a little girl... stay up all night drinking…. talk to Nat… do some target practice. Whatever gets the job done 'til I don't feel like I'm gonna break down anymore." He studies Bucky back for a few seconds. "An' I was only fucked up for a couple of days, if you can believe it."

Bucky huffs out a humorless laugh.  
"It doesn't take much to mess a guy up sometimes…" He says softly, sighing and sinking back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.  
"Clint... I can't talk to Sam. I'm trying. I really, really am. I just - I almost killed him I dunno how many times, and yeah that wasn't _me_ but I still did it and…" He rubs his eyes wearily, letting his hands fall limply into his lap. "I just can't ask the guy to help me after all that."

"You're not asking. He's offering. There's a difference. And it'll get easier, kid, but you gotta talk to somebody."

"I talk to Steve."

"Yeah, I know. You tell him about the nightmares, though? About the stuff you see when you close your eyes?"

"I- ...No." Bucky admits quietly. "He doesn't need to hear about that. I put him through enough as it is." He heaves a heavy sigh, carding a hand through his hair. "I'm amazed the kid hasn't had a nervous breakdown yet after this past year..."

"Y'see, that's my point. This stuff's hard on ya. You gotta give some of that weight to somebody, Barnes - you can't carry it all by yourself. Doesn't matter how tough y'are, you just can't."  
Clint slowly gets to his feet with a grunt and ambles across the room, holding out a hand to help Bucky up.  
"I'm always around if you wanna talk to me. Misery loves company and all that bullshit... but I'm not trained for this. I don't know my way around _feelings_ and _pyschowhatsis._ I can be your dumping ground, man, but I can't help fix what's broke."

Bucky takes the hand, letting himself be hoisted upright.

"...Thanks, Barton."  
He sighs, taking a long look at the mess of his bedroom before turning back to Clint.  
"Y'know...For all the shit you dish out, you're a pretty good guy, anybody ever tell you that?"

"Keep it quiet. I got a reputation as an asshole to protect." Clint smirks, his usual cockiness bleeding back into his voice.

"Mind not being an asshole long enough to help me stand this thing back up?" Bucky grins weakly back, one hand on the overturned bed. "Don't know if I'll be using it much more tonight, but… might be nice to try."

* * *

Steve is standing by the elevator as he starts to head back to his own floor.

"I'd stay out of of his room tonight, Rogers." Clint says without breaking stride, punching the floor button as Steve steps aboard with him. "Kid's finally settling back down."

"I know…" Steve says, standing at parade rest against one wall as they start moving down, probably just out of habit. "I figured once you went in there that you had it handled. I... just wanted to say thanks." Steve's doing the sincere boy scout smile that Clint always finds disconcerting. He grunts acknowledgement.  
"I can't always help him, but you've been right there to pick up my slack since day one. I really appreciate what you're doing for him."

"No offense, Cap, but I'm not doing it for you."

"I know." Steve is quietly beaming now. "And that's why I'm grateful."


	75. Chapter 75

"Wait a second, you guys actually _work_ with this guy? The one in the halloween costume?"  
Bucky just can't get over the pictures of Thor. He's well aware of what he looked like as the Winter Soldier, and how ridiculous Steve's uniform is, but at least those had been chosen for them. This… this is just weird.

"The guy's basically a demi-god, no matter how he dresses. Besides, he kinda rocks it." Natasha shrugs. "His girlfriend sure likes it."

"Boy, I _am _off my game if Captain Viking's got a gal and I don't." Bucky snorts. "He's wearing a cloak for god's sake. A fuckin' _cloak!"_

"I think the 'being insanely hot and having amazing hair' thing helps." Natasha deadpans, with a raised eyebrow. "Besides, she ran him over or something the first time they met. That's a conversation starter if I ever heard one."  
She sets the computer they're using to one side and turns to look seriously into Bucky's face, expression unreadable. "You want a lady friend?"

He laughs a little, though he's not sure what to make of the sudden tone shift. "Got one of those already. I'm talking to her right now. What I'd like is a steady girl, but- " He shrugs. "Hey, if Sam told ya to ask, tell him to butt outta my non-existent love-life. I'm not ready to start worrying about accidentally killing some girl on top of all the crap I already gotta worry about."

"What if you didn't have to worry about her?" Natasha asks softly, eyes still cryptic and locked. He blinks, as if considering this for the first time. "What if she wouldn't get hurt?"

"Not many women I can't hurt, Nat." He says quietly.

Bucky likes calling her 'Nat'. He's adopted Clint and Steve's nickname for Natasha to get her to start calling him Bucky, instead of 'James' (which makes his skin crawl) or just 'Barnes', which feels distant and awkward. Much as she might act like it, she's not his commanding officer.

"I didn't say _couldn't_, Bucky. I said _wouldn't_."

A tiny tingle runs up his spine when she calls him that. It's probably the first time she's done it unprompted.

"... You gonna throat-punch me if I start to think you're offering?"  
He doesn't mention how much he hopes she is. He'd say yes in a heartbeat, but...

She leans a little closer, the corner of her mouth curling up, and his pulse jumps.  
"Why? You accepting?"

"...Aren't you and Clint… y'know… together?"

Natasha draws back, making a face. "Oh god no. _No._ You thought-... Oh no no nononono. Seriously, ew... That'd be like kissing my _brother_." She mimes gagging. "Don't get me wrong, I love the guy, but not like _that_." She shakes her head.  
Bucky looks confused.  
"Look, you know how you and Steve are, right? Like heterosexual life partners?" Bucky raises an eyebrow at her in silence. "Don't give me that look, I've seen you two together."

"Ok…" Bucky says slowly, trying to recalibrate his world-view. There is no _way_ he's this lucky. "...So he's your best friend… is what I'm hearing…?"

She shifts closer and leans into him again, arms braced on either side of his hips, so close that she's very nearly touching him. He swallows hard, eyes locked on hers.  
"What you're hearing is me offering." She tilts her head slightly, her mouth less than a breath from his, and smiles suggestively. "You interested?"

* * *

He's not like Steve. This really is his first kiss since 1945, and apparently some things have changed since then... because he does _not_ remember kissing being this intense or this breathtaking back then. After kissing Natasha, he doesn't remember much of anything for a few moments.  
"... Wow."

It's been two full minutes before they finally pull apart, and if not for how oddly winded he's feeling, he'd happily have just kept right on going.  
One of her hands is threaded into his hair, and he hadn't even realized his own was curled around her back until now. She smiles at him, and it's one of the least guarded moments with her that he can ever recall having.

"Not bad… Not bad at all." The smile widens into a teasing grin. "But can't hurt to practice." She slides onto his lap, knees flush against his right side. Her free hand comes up beneath his chin, tipping his lips up to meet hers for a few moments. "You've got some time to make up."

"Yes ma'am…" He murmurs, gently pulling her to him again.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_

_**Yes, I finally caved to comics cannon. I had been pretty convinced that Clint and Natasha had a thing for a while, and I was pretty firmly in favor of it... but the more I thought about them, the more parallels I saw between their friendship and Steve and Bucky's friendship. They really act more like siblings (antagonizing the shit out of each other all the time, but devoted to each other) than anything else, and we never see much sexual tension between them.**_

_**What really tore it was when I saw a bunch of panels from the Avengers comics of Bucky/Natasha interacting and the cuteness and the sense of 'fit' just got to me. **_

_**I've been building up to this chapter for quite a while, so it's fun to finally be able to post it :D**_


	76. Chapter 76

"Hey Nat, you still in- …"  
Clint comes up short in the doorway of the common room. He hadn't been expecting to find Bucky sitting on the couch with Natasha curled up against his chest, playing idly with his hair. The metal arm is resting on her knee and the flesh and blood one is curled around her waist. Bucky startles when he hears Clint come in, but Natasha ignores him.  
"-... Well it took you damned long enough."

"Shut up, birdbrain." Natasha shoots back mildly, not looking up from what she's doing. "I wasn't going to come on to somebody that can't say 'no'. You know me better than that."

"Yeah right. You turn on the charm and then find me a guy who _can_ say no." Clint shakes his head, leaning against the doorway. "Good thing for me, I'm immune, cause I already know you're a huge dork."

Bucky blinks, looking down at her. "Wait a second, you mean you were interested in me this whole time?" She nods. "I coulda been kissing you this _whole time_ and I didn't know about it?!"

"Pretty much." Natasha finishes the tiny braid she's been putting into his hair, flicking it lightly across his chin. "Like I said, you couldn't exactly say 'no' before... I was waiting for you to be ready before I said anything." She leans up against the back of the couch to make eye contact. "I'm a _very_ patient woman, Bucky. I was willing to wait."

"But she wouldn't shut the hell up about you for the last like month and a half." Clint supplies helpfully. "Seriously, she's worse than Cap sometimes. I was ready to set you two up myself just to get her to stop."

"God, you really are the brother I never wanted, you know that Clint?"

"You keep feeding the strays, they stick around." Clint shrugs with a self-deprecating grin, turning to leave. "And go make out someplace else. People have to sit on that couch."


	77. Chapter 77

Bucky's world falls into a routine:

Wake up.  
Run with Steve.  
Eat breakfast.  
Spar with Natasha.  
'Spar' with Natasha.  
Eat lunch.  
Therapy with Sam.  
Argue with Tony.  
Eat Dinner.  
Try to sleep.  
...Fail.

* * *

He snaps awake abruptly, a scream dying in his throat, heart hammering hard against his ribs, to see her standing at the foot of his bed. She's barefoot, wearing an old Stark-Industries T-shirt and pajama pants, crimson curls tied into a loose braid down her back. She looks like she just woke up.

"You shouldn't be here." He mutters, dropping back against his pillow with a groan. "I'm dangerous at night. I put holes in the wall last time."

"I heard." She says softly. "I heard you this time too. You were screaming bloody murder for a little bit there." She hasn't moved. "... You mind if I join you?"

He lifts his head to stare at her. Of course he doesn't mind, but-  
"...You know you're welcome anytime... just…" He scrubs a hand over his face, steeling himself. "I don't want to hurt you again, Nat." He vividly remembers putting a bullet in her -both times- and throwing her into the side of a car in between. He doesn't have a very good track record so far.

"Oh sweetie...-"  
She crawls up onto the bed, sliding up close beside him and stroking his hair. He leans into the touch, resting his head against her shoulder. He knows he should be telling her to leave, to stay away from him… but he needs this too much right now.  
"-If you haven't managed to kill me yet, you're never going to." She whispers, kissing his forehead. "I'm durable." She shifts down a bit to nuzzle under his chin, planting a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw and enjoying the little noises he makes when she does.  
"We all have something to keep us up at night. ...Might as well make it something good if you're not going to sleep anyway, right?"

He reaches out and curls her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair, soaking in the warmth of her body. Her hands lace together behind his neck.  
"You are… amazing." He breathes against her scalp. "You know that?"

"I do, actually." She smirks, nosing demandingly against his neck. "The question is, do you know how amazing _you _are?"

"That a trick question?"

Her hand trails down his back and he feels like he could purr. She's watching him when his eyes flutter open again.  
"Do I have to show you?"

He grins, wrapping his arms around her and rolling onto his back, taking her with him. She sprawls languidly down the length of him, her feet just barely reaching his shins.  
She laughs when he reaches up to kiss her. Making her laugh feels almost as good as kissing her.  
…Almost.

"I think I'd like that."


	78. Chapter 78

Steve finds out about Bucky's quiet relationship with Natasha unexpectedly, when he comes to get Bucky for their morning run and a female voice answers his knock with "just a minute".

"... Natasha?"

He tries to come up with some reason the Black Widow would be in Bucky's room at 5 o'clock in the morning and the only explanations that present themselves make him blush.

There's some shuffling around, the thud of someone falling off of the bed, and muffled laughter behind the door.

_Those are my pants, you idiot._

_I thought they seemed kinda small. Hey does this mean I can start telling people I got into your pants?_

_Only if you want to die horribly._

More giggling.

He's sure his face is on fire. He's going to burst into flames any moment.

"Be out in a minute, Steve."

"... Yeah, sure... um… take your time." He answers awkwardly. "I'll just… I'll wait by the elevator."

* * *

When Bucky joins him a few minutes later, his hair is mussed and he looks stupidly happy.  
_I'm in love_ is all but tattooed on his face.  
He does at least look just a tiny bit embarrassed when he finally notices that Steve's face is flaming red.  
"So… um… suprise?" Bucky offers awkwardly, with his most charming grin. He leans casually against the side of the elevator car as Steve pushes the button for the ground floor. Steve is carefully avoiding eye contact, he notices.

"Not that I'm not happy for you." Steve starts, clearing his throat awkwardly, eyes on anything but Bucky. "I am. Really. Just… uh … when did this happen?"

Steve can't quite look Bucky in the eye yet.

It's not that he's jealous... He likes Natasha, certainly, and why wouldn't he? She's one of the most amazing people he's ever met... but he's not romantically interested in her. That would be like dating a kid sister - just creepy.  
He can definitely see why Bucky _is _interested, but to him, Nat's just a friend. That's it. And he likes it that way.  
So when Steve says he's happy for his best friend… he means it sincerely.  
It's just… He's not sure he can process his two closest friends sleeping together just yet.

_Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.  
__Yes! They do!_

"Uh… couple'a weeks." Bucky shrugs, his grin fading a little as he gives Steve a long, searching look. "Look, Steve… this wasn't s'posed to be any kinda secret. We weren't trying to keep it quiet or spring anything on you. Just never… I mean... how was I supposed to bring up 'Nat sleeps in my room now' without you gettin' weirded out?"

Steve finally meets his eyes at that, and even if he's still a little skeeved out, he can't help but smile. Bucky always did want Steve's final approval for his girlfriends back home, even when they were just gangly teenagers before the war. It's sort of endearing that he still does.

"Buck... I do not now, nor have I _ever_ needed to know about your sex life." He says, clapping a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "I'm not mad you didn't tell me. It's none'a my business. I was just a little ...uh… startled... when I realized you had a lady in there, that's all. Especially one I know personally…" He shifts a little uncomfortably at the memory of realizing who was in Bucky's room. "The bottom line is: you're two of the best people I know. I'm glad you make each other happy. You both deserve it."

Bucky smirks and looks away, a little embarrassed.  
"Thanks, Steve... That means a lot to me, y'know? She's a pretty amazing lady..."

"I know." Steve smiles back. "But… seriously... never tell me about what you guys do in there. Ever. Please."

Bucky laughs, and it's loud and warm and easy, just like Steve remembers it used to be. He didn't realize how much he'd missed that sound until now.

"Deal."

The doors open and watery grey light filters through the glass-lined hallway ahead of them. For the first time in forever, for just one fragile moment, they're like he always used to imagine they'd be after the war. No trauma, no scars between them, just two friends ready to face the world together. Just for this moment, they're only Steve and Bucky - two kids from Brooklyn. It feels good.

Bucky turns to him and slaps him on the back with an easy smile, as they venture out into the pre-dawn.  
"Now lets get moving. Sam'll be lapping us soon if we don't hurry up."


	79. Chapter 79

"Hey, Egghead, you in here?"

It's a useless question really, and he knows it; because where else is Tony _ever,_ but in his lab when he's not on a mission? The question's not the point. The point is that Bucky has learned to loudly announce his presence whenever he enters the labs uninvited.  
Moving silently is still a deeply ingrained habit, and he's already accidentally startled the tower's resident tech genius so many times that Tony's threatened to 'modify' his arm if he doesn't knock it off.

Tony barely glances up at him.  
"Oh hey, it's Tin-Soldier. What's the matter, your baby-sitter off duty?"

"Big talk from the guy who can't even remember to eat dinner on his own." Bucky smirks, leaning against the doorway. "Pepper have to change your diapers too?"

He doesn't really have anything against Tony. He'd even go so far as to say he kind of likes the guy in a grudging sort of way. He's definitely grateful for everything Tony's done for him, and especially for Steve... but damned if they can help picking at each other at every opportunity.  
It's some kind of snarking instinct or something.

"Seem to remember you having issues with remembering _anything_, big guy." Tony shoots back without looking up from… whatever it is he's working on. A pile of bolts and scrap is what it looks like from the door.

"Cheap shot, but ok. You wanna play that game: I got my brain erased for 70 odd years. What's your excuse?"

"Oh nothing much. Just busy changing and/or saving the world. Kinda engrossing. You understand... -Or maybe not so much."

Bucky chuckles to himself, sauntering over to lean against the work-table, chin resting on his flesh hand.  
"Ah... god, you are such a dick, Howard."

Tony goes rigid.

"What… what did you just call me?"

"...A ...dick?" Bucky says slowly, straightening up, a little puzzled.  
Tony usually just fires back. He rarely seems bothered by the name calling, and it's not like they haven't traded these particular insults a hundred times before. "What? I say that all the time. Besides, you called me a 'giant metal douche' last week, so I don't think you have much room to-"

"You- you..." Tony's mouth is working, but nothing comprehensible comes out. He looks like he's just been electrocuted.  
The atmosphere of the room has suddenly shifted dramatically, but Bucky can't quite put his finger on why.

"...What?"

"You just… like you have any right to- ...Get out." Tony's face has gone dark and his finger snaps like a whip towards the door.

Bucky stares at him, completely at a loss.  
"Wait a second, what the hell did I do?"

"Oh, you want to know what you did, Iron Giant? You really wanna know?!"

"Yeah, I'd kinda like to." Bucky crosses his arms a little belligerently. He's not one to back down easily. "The fuck is-"

"You know I used to feel sorry for you? Poor little lost soldier that the Cap dragged in. Then I read up on you.  
I saw what you can do, Bucko. Saw your hit list. How long until you put another hole in somebody? Huh? How long before you break Romanoff _in half_ because you had a bad dream?!"

Bucky recoils like he's been punched. His jaw goes tight and his eyes are stinging.  
"That's _not_ funny, Stark. That is _way_ too damned far..."  
He swallows hard, with some effort resisting the overwhelming urge to lash out. He knows he can't, even if he doesn't understand why Tony's doing this. He'd kill this man in a hand-to-hand fight, and there's more than enough blood on his hands already.  
"It's not… fuckin'… funny." Bucky realizes that he's shaking, but he can't stop. Tony's struck a nerve and a deep one at that. "I am _terrified_ that I'm gonna hurt her again... Every. single. goddamn. _day_." He hates the tiny waver in his voice that he can't control.

"Like that'd be anything new?" Tony snarls. "That's what you do isn't it?"

Bucky breathes in long and slow, trying not to react; using the techniques Sam has taught him. "What the hell is your problem, Tony?"  
He's not doing very well.

"Oh you don't have that long, Terminator." Tony's voice is low and dangerous. "I'll make it easy for you. You wanna start with how you killed my parents?"

Bucky's face crumples with sudden understanding. His chest tightens.  
"I didn't-"

"They were high-profile S.H.I.E.L.D. - you took out high-profile targets. You expect me to believe you weren't involved? I'm not stupid-"

"Christ, Tony! Somebody cut their brake-lines!" Bucky blurts out, slamming his hands down on the table, stressed past the breaking point. His metal hand leaves an impressive dent. Tony jumps, taking a step backward. Bucky startles even himself.  
"HYDRA didn't use the Winter Soldier to cut people's fucking _brakes_! You think I didn't look this up too?"  
His voice is a lot thinner than he'd like it to be, but at least it's not breaking… yet.  
"Howard was an asshole, but he was my friend - and Steve's too. ...I had to know if I did it, 'cause I didn't remember…"  
Tony is staring warily at him, his expression unreadable. Bucky feels suddenly drained.  
"...If somebody had put a bullet in their heads, yeah, that'd probably have been me. I'm a sniper... Always was. 'S'probably why they picked me outta the snow to begin with.  
Look… they didn't defrost me unless they had to... and all they needed for a car 'accident' was a schmuck with wire-cutters and access to the car…"

His eyes are locked on the table. He can't look at Tony or he'll snap like a twig. His hands are shaking harder, so he plants them firmly on the edge of the table. The rattling of metal on metal gives him away, but he tries to ignore it. He has to take a deep breath before he can continue.  
The room is deafeningly quiet around them.

"I'm sorry, Tony. I am _sorry_. Your dad was a jerk most of the time, but he was an alright guy when it counted. ...I did a lot of stuff I ain't proud of, and stuff I can't think about without cryin' like a little girl… but at least I didn't do that…" He takes a ragged breath before meeting Tony's eyes. "I didn't kill Howard."

Tony stares at him another few moments before sucking in a deep breath and looking away.

"Goddammit." He mutters. "I... am an asshole."

Bucky lets out a short, tense laugh that ends up sounding more like a sob. "Welcome to the club…" He mutters shakily. He tries to smile and fails. "We should get membership cards... I'll- I'll give one to Clint."

To his own surprise, Tony starts to laugh. He laughs helplessly until he's nearly doubled over. He can't even figure out why it's so funny, but he just can't stop himself.  
It's several minutes before he can collect himself enough to face Bucky again... who looks like someone ran over the family dog and he's trying to pretend he's not going to cry about it later.  
Tony wipes his streaming eyes and struggles to get himself under control. He's never been good with people, and right now he's being _abysmal._

"Alright, look, that was… that was out of line. I shouldn'tve… I'm a horrible person, ok? Ask anybody. I didn't- …" He's apparently even worse at apologizing than he is at interacting. "...Can we just never bring this up again?"

"It's fine." Bucky says tightly. "Never happened." The muscle in his jaw works unsteadily, but his expression doesn't waver.

"...So ...what'd you come in here for, Buckster?" Tony's tone is artificially bright, and he purposely turns his face away as he talks, but Bucky doesn't comment. He doesn't want to think about it anymore either.

"I wanted-" He pauses a moment to steady his shaking voice. "...I wanted a little help getting rid of this thing." He rolls back his sleeve to show the scratched red star, still painted vivid as blood on his left shoulder. His voice has gone flat when he manages to find it again. "Figured you might have some ideas."

"Tell you what... I'll do it right now." Tony gestures to a padded stool. "Roll that over here and get comfy. We'll have you fixed up in no time."

Bucky obliges mutely and sits where indicated. Aside from Tony's occasional muttering to JARVIS, they sit in silence for a long time after.

* * *

"What d'ya think?" Tony asks surprisingly gently, flicking up his work goggles. He's finally finished buffing his handiwork.

For all his loud, obnoxious, flashy personality, Tony is surprisingly good at understated design.  
The star is no longer blood-red now; but brilliant white, on a disc of dark blue. The metal shines like new around it.  
The whole effect reminds him strongly of Steve's shield.  
As changes go, this one is small and simple, but it makes all the difference in the world. This is a symbol Bucky can stand behind instead of hiding from, and despite the undercurrent of darkness that's been filling the room, he smiles at little when he sees it.

" 'S'perfect…" He mumbles, a little in awe of the unspoken gesture behind this. He flashes his gaze up to Tony's face and it's clear that they understand each other. "Thanks."

"No problem." Tony answers with a faint, but genuine smile. "Wear it with pride, gramps."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_**I looked and didn't find any confirmation online that Bucky was indeed responsible for Howard's assassination. The more I thought about it, the less sense it made to me that he would be. Why thaw out your top assassin/sniper if you're just going to crash a car to kill your victims? Do you really need this insanely powerful super-soldier/human-weapon to snip a brake line?**_

_**Soooo, I decided to take a different approach to this scene than I have in the past. Thoughts?**_


	80. Chapter 80

"Tony, you have a few minutes?"

Sam is standing in the doorway when he looks up. It's been close to 2 days since Tony's unfortunate confrontation with Bucky, and he's pretty sure he's about to get an earful about it.

"Hey, what's up, flyboy? You need some wing upgrades or somethin'?"

Tony wipes his hands off on a greasy rag and flicks up his goggles. Might as well face the music as much like a grown-up as he knows how...

Sam sighs deeply.  
"You want to explain to me why I spent most of yesterday working Barnes through some massive regression and self-destructive issues?  
...Because all I got out of him was 'I talked to Tony earlier - forget it'. He didn't want to say anything else about it, and last I had heard you weren't in the habit of kicking people when they're down. ...So, what the hell happened?"

_Called it_…

"Look, before we go into me being a terrible person -and hey, no argument there- he ok?"

Sam studies the floor for a couple of seconds. "Yeah, for the most part. Now, anyway. He's with Natasha" He locks eyes with Tony again. "By the way, for your own safety: if she comes by, make sure she's not armed before you let her in. She is _pissed_."

Tony massages the bridge of his nose.  
_Great. Wonderful. This just keeps getting better._

"Tony?"

"Alright, so, in my defense, I hadn't slept for like 72 hours and I had just finished reading up on this whole Winter Soldier thing and I thought he assassinated my parents, so I wasn't-"

"-What'd you do?"

"I…" How can he put this delicately...? "I might've insinuated that … um...he's gonna … go rage-monster and kill his girlfriend." He finishes lamely.

Tony would swear the temperature in the room just dropped 30 degrees. Sam stares at him, open mouthed.  
"You did _what_?!"  
His mouth works silently for a few moment before anything else will come out. "Why would you - Do you have _any idea_ the damage-"

"Yeah, I _do_ actually, Wilson." Tony interrupts, dropping down onto his stool. "_I know_ it was a dick move - like stomping on kittens level. I shouldn't've shot off my big stupid mouth, but- I just… Like I said, I was mad and tired and I …I opened my mouth and the stupid just came out." He flings his arms wide as he says it, frustrated with himself. "I wasn't thinking... I was pissed off... and by the time I realized I was hitting below the belt, it was kinda too late for take-backsies."

"Jeesus, Tony…" Sam can feel the headache forming behind his eyes. "Of all the sore-spots to poke at- You have any idea how long it took for him to be ok with the idea of having a girlfriend at all? We spent _weeks_ going over how scared he was about getting that close to anybody..."  
He rubs tiredly at the bridge of his nose.  
"I get you were upset. I get it. Losing your parents hurts like hell. I know... but… even if he _did_ kill your parents… you know it wasn't voluntary. Blaming him for anything the Winter Soldier did isn't really fair. You _know _this, Tony."

Tony sighs heavily, holding up his hands in defeat.

"Yes. Now. In retrospect, I'm very much aware of that. Thanks.  
Like I said, I'm a terrible person. It's just one of the many services I offer. Can't help it, never could." He drops his hands into his lap, feeling unreasonably tired. "I just- I don't know I hulked out or something? Whatever the hell you want to call it. My mouth went off and by the time my brain caught up, kid was already doing the kicked-puppy face and I didn't know what to do, so I tried to fix up the star thing for him to apologize, but then he was still- "

"-Tony. Shut up."  
Sam's hands are up, as if to deflect anything else he might have to say.  
"Just shut up for a second."  
He takes a long, slow breath, in and out, before he speaks again.  
"You and Bucky need to talk about this. He's having a hard time getting past it, and I know you didn't mean this to blow up as much as it did, but here we are."  
Tony watches him silently. Sam can see Tony's own issues stretching out in an impressive list before his eyes. He sighs and his tone softens.  
"God knows you've got issues of your own, and maybe when this is all settled down we'll deal with 'em, but for now, you two have got to talk."  
He waits for Tony's answer to this, but none is forthcoming. Stark just sits quietly studying his hands.  
"...Tony?"

"You told me to shut up. I'm shutting up. Am I not doing a good enough job of shutting up? I thought I was doing a great job shutting up."

Another long, calming breath. _Just let it go.  
_"...Look, I'll mediate, but this _is_ happening. It's the only way this thing is going to get resolved without Bucky having a nervous breakdown or Natasha murdering you in your sleep. My office, tomorrow, 2 o'clock. You aren't there by 2:01 and I send Steve up here to get you. You can explain to him why. ...I'm sure he'll be very calm and reasonable about it."

That gets Tony's attention.  
"You didn't tell Cap?"

"You want _two_ people out for your blood today?" Sam asks, the faintest hint of a smirk crossing his face.

Steve is generally a pretty kind and forgiving person... but you get him good and mad and people die.  
Hurt his best friend and watch things get _really_ ugly…

Sam hadn't planned for Natasha to get involved in this either, but Bucky had already talked to her before their therapy appointment, so there was nothing he could really do about it by then, except make her promise not to murder Tony until Sam at least got a chance to talk to him.  
That had taken some serious persuasion...

"2 pm. My office." He says again. "On the dot."

_**Sir, you have a pre-scheduled appointment at 1:30 pm with**_**-**

"Cancel it." Tony interrupts, eyes on Sam. "I got a date with a therapist and the Terminator."

_**Shall I put that down as the event description, sir?**_

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Oh Tony, you have got to watch what that mouth of yours. You should know this by now. *tisks***_

_**And yes, we're still dealing with the fallout of the boys' discussion yesterday.  
**__**I didn't feel it was very realistic for Bucky to just be over it and fine that quickly after all the ... less than gentle... prodding that Tony did.  
**__**I think he'd still be pretty sensitive about everything that happened as the Winter Soldier, and scared of relapsing and hurting the people around him, especially someone like Natasha who he's very attached to. He'd worry about hurting Steve, certainly, especially after just about killing him during the events of TWS, but Steve's pretty tough to damage, so he's less worried about that now than he used to be.  
**__**Even if Bucky's more or less back to being himself and **__**consciously**__**he understands that nothing he did as the WS was his choice - subconsciously, he's still got some pretty big guilt and self-hatred problems to address, and those are surfacing in a noticeable way now.**_

_**I figured he'd still be pretty shaken when he left Tony's lab, even if he's not still upset **__**at**_ _**Tony, so he'd go talk to Sam to deal with it - and of course Sam's not going to let that lie... especially not when Natasha's ready to go murder Tony for hurting her schnookums, so the ball gets rolling... aaand the whole thing just mushrooms into a bit of a clusterfuck... But it's needed to clear the air.**_

_**So buckle up kids, because we've got 2-3 more chapters to go before this part is over :)**_


	81. Chapter 81

Bucky is oppressively still and very nearly silent. He has been for the past three hours and it's really starting to worry her.

He's been lying here on the bed, head in Natasha's lap, quietly accepting her gentle petting, ever since he came back from his appointment with Sam. The most movement he's made in that time is to shift so he can wrap his right arm around her waist. He hasn't so much as twitched since.

While he's stopped muttering about how dangerous he is and how she shouldn't come anywhere near him -the way he was before he went- this stillness is almost worse. It reminds her too much of the way he was when they found him, when he was still the Winter Soldier. She doesn't ever want to go back to that. She knows he doesn't either.

For the fourteenth time, she considers calling Steve. … And for the fourteenth time, she doesn't do it. Bucky has specifically asked her not to, and he's too fragile for another breach of trust right now - no matter how much she thinks Steve ought to know.  
She'll just have to let this play out for the time being.  
The only reason she hasn't skinned Tony alive yet is _also_ because Bucky asked her not to... but it's a close thing.

"Bucky, look at me." His head tilts slightly, almost automatically to obey. Dull, pale blue eyes turn to her. "You know he's full of shit, right?"

"I know." Is the convictionless, mumbled answer.

"I've been sleeping in here for what, 3, 4 weeks? And you know how many times it's been a problem? _Zero_. Zero times."  
He doesn't answer.  
"You make some noise, you roll around, you talk - sometimes you even scream... But you have never once hurt me. Not _once_."  
"Once is all it'd take." Bucky mumbles, his arm tightening a fraction around her waist. The exhaustion in his voice makes her chest ache. "I just gotta screw up once…"

She sighs, letting her head fall back for a moment. She can't talk to him like this, side-long and awkward. She slides her legs gently out from under his head and moves to straddle his stomach instead, her slim hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look up at her. He shifts to keep his hold on her waist, but otherwise doesn't move. She bends down, lithe as a cat, until they are face to face.

"I _told_ you, I'm hard to kill. What part of that isn't sinking in?"  
When he fails to answer, she presses her forehead against his, closing her eyes as if she could will him to understand.  
"I love you, you idiot.  
...You're not the monster under the bed anymore.  
I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of what you can do, what you might do, or what you're gonna do. I trust you, Bucky Barnes." She opens her eyes and cranes her head back to study his face. She doesn't even realize her eyes are wet, until a drop falls across his face and trails, hot and fast, down to his throat. "Do you know how short the list of people I trust is?"  
She realizes her voice is trembling and makes it stop.  
They can't _both_ fall apart.

"I don't deserve to be on it." He whispers, but his arm around her back draws tighter instead of letting go; like she's all that's keeping him from drifting away. Maybe she is.  
She stretches out across his body, elbows braced tight alongside his ribs, and lays her head down over his heart. A metal finger reaches out to brush the moisture from her cheek. She leans a little into his hand.

"I love you." She repeats. "You don't seem to understand that."

"I do. ...I just don't get why." he says softly, running the metal hand gently over her face and through her hair. He can't stand to break the connection of his flesh hand on her back. "I love you so much it scares me, Nat." His eyes squeeze shut and his voice drops away for a few moments. He takes a deep breath. "I spend every day wondering if this is gonna be the one where I finally screw it all up. After everything I did-"

"You didn't have a choice. You keep forgetting that part."

"Does it matter? I still did it."

"_Yes_ it matters! Of course it matters!" She rears back to stare at him, disbelieving.  
How long has this weight, this guilt, been lurking under Bucky's ease, his laugh, his smiles? How long has she thought it was past and gone, when it was still right there in front of her? How has she not seen it until now?

He shakes his head.  
"I shoulda fought harder. I shoulda gotten away from them. I shoulda-"  
Every word slices into her like broken glass.

She cuts him off with a sudden, rough, forceful kiss, hands locked desperately around the back of his head, grinding her mouth ruthlessly into his. His grip tightens against her back, clutching puckers into the fabric of her shirt. It's very nearly painful.  
His deadly left hand clenches and unclenches compulsively against the mattress. He doesn't quite know what to do with it.  
He doesn't pull away from her, but his eyes flutter wide when they break apart.

"Don't…" she pants out, eyes just a little bit wild on his. "Don't ever blame yourself for what they did to you.

"It ain't that easy." Bucky whispers, gaze fixed intently on her face. His eyes are so wounded...so lost, so vulnerable. It makes her ache inside. "I was there for it all."

"I know…" She says softly. "But none of it was your fault. That's what I need you to remember."

"...I'm tryin'." His voice is as soft and faint as distant smoke.

"I know." Natasha repeats soothingly, trailing her fingers gently over the side of his face. "Just keep going, honey. I'm behind you all the way."

He heaves in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few moments and savoring her touch on his skin.  
"...You might literally be perfect." Bucky finally cracks a weak smile. He kisses one of her fingertips as it strays close to his mouth. "What'd I ever do to deserve you?"

"That's a conversation that could take all night." She smirks, relieved to see even a shadow of a smile appear. Her fingers catch lightly under his chin as she brings her lips down to meet his. "And it might take some very... hands-on ...demonstrations."

Bucky, it turns out, is a very attentive listener.


	82. Chapter 82

Natasha accompanies him to Sam's office at a quarter to 2. Bucky is quiet the entire trip, but he keeps his fingers laced with hers all the way there, and she knows he appreciates the support.

"This is as far as I'm allowed to go for today." She says with a teasing smile when they reach the landing third floor landing, reigning him in to kiss his cheek. "Something about murdering Tony, I dunno." She shrugs. " I'll be in the gym when you're done. Come find me?"

"I will." He says distractedly, eyes flicking towards the frosted glass door where Sam is waiting. He turns to her before she can walk away, mirroring the smile. "And don't kill him. You promised."

"Yeah, yeah." She smirks, waving him off playfully. "Go on. I won't kill anybody before you get back. Promise."  
She presses the button and waves as the doors slide closed.

He watches her go until she's vanished from sight before turning on his heel and marching resolutely through the doors and into Sam's office.

Tony is already there.

* * *

"Frosty."

"Stark."

They exchange nods as he passes and settle uncomfortably back into their chairs. Neither is entirely sure where they go from here. Sam takes a seat in a chair off to one side, roughly centered between them.

"I'm just here to mediate." He reminds them when they both turn to him. "You guys say what you need to say." Sam leans back in the chair, arms crossed, and they each turn to stare at each other instead.  
Bucky looks away first.

He studies his feet self-consciously. He hadn't meant for this thing to become a major event. He definitely hadn't wanted it to.  
Bucky's honestly had more than enough of being the center of attention. He's tired of being pitied and handled like glass. He doesn't want any more special treatment. He's always _always_ hated that.  
What frustrates him most is how quickly he fractured under pressure. He'd been doing so well until recently, finally feeling like himself for the first time in over half a century. Finally happy, finally living.  
And all that progress had cracked and buckled with a few well placed words.

After the blow-out with Tony he'd just needed to get his shaken world back on its feet, and anymore, that meant talking to Sam. Now he's wishing he hadn't done that either.

Tony clears his throat awkwardly.

"So… I uh… I think I'm supposed to go first… or something." Bucky continues to stare holes into the floor. "Alright, look, I said stuff I shouldn't have said. It was low. You didn't deserve that..."  
Tony seems to run out of steam quickly when Bucky doesn't answer. He falls silent.

"I told you, s'fine." Bucky says quietly after a few moments, finally looking up. He glances at Sam, who gives him a subtle nod of encouragement. He returns his eyes to Tony who looks as miserable as he feels.  
"Not gonna say it didn't hurt like hell, hearin' that from you." His voice is all Brooklyn drawl, he realizes vaguely, the way it always gets these days when he's uneasy. Maybe it's just the comforting familiarity of the sound.  
He swallows thickly, framing his words carefully. He's spent most of the last 24 hours planning what he wants to say. "But I can't blame ya for feelin' the way you did. Wasn't unreasonable, thinkin' it coulda been me. And I don't blame ya for being mad. Somebody went after my mama, I'd kick their ass too-" He has to stop there. He doesn't remember his mother's face anymore, and realizing that stings a lot more than he expected it to.  
He's pretty sure he'd still have torn the throat out of anybody who tried to touch her, though.

"Yeah, but somebody trips and knocks her down the stairs, you gonna punch their teeth out?" Tony asks.

Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh and quietly slaps a hand against his forehead.  
"Tony-" he starts.

"-'Cause that's kind of what I did." Tony continues, undaunted now that he's gotten some traction. "And you weren't even involved, so I think I get double asshole points on that one?" Tony glances between the two of them, as if he's expecting confirmation.

In spite of himself, Bucky cracks a smile. Tony _is_ an asshole, but then again, so's he. They understand each other.

"Alright," He says, leaning forward in his seat, catching Tony's eye.. " We both wanna just get this over and done, so here's my idea... We pretend this never happened.  
You can say whatever you want about me. I gotta learn to take it.  
I can say whatever I want about you. Same deal we had before….  
...But you _ever_ bring Nat into it again," he continues warningly, "you ever _ever _say one bad word about her… or you _ever_ talk shit about Steve, or anybody else I care about…" He raises his eyebrows and favors Tony with his most terrifying feral grin. "-And they'll be scraping you off the wall for the next week."

He can see Sam throwing up his hands to his left, but chooses to pretend he doesn't. This is probably not how the talk was meant to go… but hey, what works, works.

He holds out his right hand to shake.  
"Deal?"

Tony stares at the hand for a second, then breaks into a grin of his own, taking it.  
"Deal, Tin Man."

"You're still a dick." Bucky adds before letting go.

"And you're still a giant metal douche."Tony smirks back. "But you're my favorite giant metal douche… next to Rhodey, anyway."

_**I will inform Col. Rhodes of your sentiments, sir.**_

"You would." Tony mutters.

* * *

_**Author's note:**_

_**Because dysfunctional families call for dysfunctional solutions...**_

_**At least they have an understanding now.**_


	83. Chapter 83

Bucky's on his way to meet Natasha when Steve stops him in the hallway outside the gym, his face a picture of confusion and resignation.

"Ok, what'd I miss while I was gone yesterday?" He asks, falling into step with Bucky. "I just talked to Natasha and all she'd say is you were talking to Sam, she's not supposed to tell me why, and she's not allowed to kill Tony. … Usually that last one's kind of by default, so… I'm a little lost here."

"Nothin' important." Bucky shrugs. "Just got into a pissing match. Don't worry about it." He pops his shoulders and grins at Steve. "You wanna take a couple laps with me?"

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

"Hell no."

" 'Course not…" Steve sighs and rolls his eyes. "Alright, yeah, I'll be happy to lap you."

"I said do laps."

"Same thing." Steve grins wickedly, bursting through the doors to the track area and taking off at a sprint, before Bucky can react.

"Hey! You cheating little bastard! Get back here!"

Only Bucky could make swearing and threats sound affectionate, Steve reflects, already halfway around the track and gaining speed. It's nicer than some of the other things they used to call each other, though, that's for sure.  
His mother had frequently threatened to wash Bucky's mouth out with soap whenever she heard them ribbing each other… For being 5-foot-nothing and 100 pounds soaking wet, she'd been plenty intimidating. Steve hadn't dared to swear in front of her.

"You gonna yell at me, or you gonna catch up?" He calls over his shoulder, still grinning.

Bucky takes off after him an instant later.


	84. Chapter 84

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Wow, that was the first update since I started this story where I got absolutely no feedback. Guess that means nobody liked those chapters much... **_

_**Ah well. They were necessary, but they're over now. On we go :D**_

_****Whoops, correction: I got one review.****_

* * *

It's a hot, stormy summer night when the two super soldiers find themselves alone in the tower common room. Lightning flashes like a strobe outside and the hum of the thunder is nearly deafening as it crashes and rages around them.  
Sheets of rain are coursing down the windows with a merciless, ceaseless rattling that's starting to put both of them on edge.  
JARVIS turns up the background music it's been playing without being asked.

Steve is still nursing a broken ankle from two days prior, and given how quickly his bones knit, he's got to be careful with it for at least another couple of days so it doesn't set crooked. He's been set up on the couch with a pillow, a foot-stool, and a stack of library books to keep him busy, but he's still been restless and difficult all day.  
Steve is, predictably, less than thrilled about being an invalid again. He's spent most of the time he's supposed to be resting complaining about having to rest. It's not unlike his behavior as a tiny, scrappy kid in New York City. Take away 8 inches of height and a hundred pounds of muscle, and he'd be indistinguishable from his pre-war self.

Bucky is keeping an eye on his friend, 'to make sure you don't do anything stupid', since he's not yet cleared for field duty, and he'd much rather spend his downtime with Steve than alone.

The others are working somewhere in Budapest.

* * *

"Here. Now sit still before you break somethin' else."  
Bucky shoves a bowl of ice cream the size of his head into Steve's hands, before dropping down onto the couch next to him. "I catch you hobbling around the kitchen again, and I'm duct-taping you to something."

"Thanks…" Steve glances across at him with a raised eyebrow, before picking at the dish. "I guess… I coulda gotten it, though. You don't have to-"

"Shut up and sit, I said." Bucky waves him off, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. "You're not supposed to be walkin' around. Besides, I'm used to it. You were _always_ sick or busted up when were kids. -Half the time it was both." He glances sidelong across the back of the couch at Steve. "...How many times did you have the flu, year before I shipped out? Five?"

"Six, I think." Steve corrects, letting a bite of mint-chip melt over his tongue. The cold is soothing after the heat of the day.

"Yeah." Bucky nods sagely without lifting his head. "Like I said, I'm used to it. Rest up, punk."

"Not like I have much choice…" Steve mutters, licking the spoon clean. "But if I gotta sit on the couch like a lump, at least I'm glad, I've got you to do it with."

"Better than crap TV, right?" Bucky grins lazily.

"I dunno, I mean that cop show Natasha was watching yesterday was pretty interesting-"  
Steve hits the deck just in time, as a pillow goes soaring past his head. He comes up laughing so hard he nearly drops his bowl.

"Little smart-ass." Bucky shakes his head as he settles back; doing a bad job of hiding the small smile creeping over his face. "Body gets bigger, dumb kid stays the same."

"If I did behave, you'd think I was dying." Steve rolls his eyes, digging into the ice cream again with gusto. "Made that mistake before." he mutters around the spoon. He shakes it, now empty, under Bucky's nose. "I don't know how I even _held_ that much chicken soup, much less how you got ahold of it during a war."

"I knew people." Bucky says shortly, snatching the spoon away. " 'Sides, you looked like you _were_ dying half the time, so I wasn't takin' chances."  
He takes the opportunity to snipe a bite of Steve's ice-cream before giving it back. "Rather stuff you full'a soup all winter than have to bury your skinny ass in the spring."

Steve has no answer to that, so he says nothing at all, suddenly very interested in the dish in his hands. Bucky leans his head back against the couch again, and closes his eyes reflectively. They listen to the rain and JARVIS's selection of jazz for a while in silence.

A mellow stillness falls over the room, and there's a sense that the entire world is languid and listless tonight.

* * *

"You ever wonder what would'a happened if we hadn't- … if …we'd been around when we were supposed to be?" Bucky asks suddenly. Steve had started to think he was asleep.

"What, you mean after the war?"

"Yeah…" Bucky's eyes are open, glancing sidelong at Steve. "If I hadn't'a fallen off 'a that train, if you hadn't crashed that plane. Just… what if we got to live like normal guys?"

"We were never gonna be normal." Steve answers quietly, setting the soppy remains of his desert aside. "Not after everything that happened…"  
No one, he's come to realize, comes back from war the same as they left.  
"-But yeah... I think about it all the time." His eyes flick unconsciously to his closed compass, resting on the mantle across the room. Peggy's old photo, however faded, is still lodged tightly inside the lid. "...Missed a whole lifetime with some'a the most important people in the world."  
He resists the urge to hobble over and get the compass. Bucky would pull him back before he made it more than a step away from the couch anyway.

"Some'a the best." Bucky nods in agreement. "Morita, Dugan... Dernier, Jones…" He says softly. "I miss 'em sometimes."

Steve's eyes drop into his lap.  
"Peggy…"  
The name slips out of him unintentionally. He shouldn't mourn for someone who's still alive. She's lived a good life. He can't begrudge her that.

"You and Carter." Bucky says with a crooked half-smile.  
Steve says nothing.  
"It woulda been terrifying, you two havin' kids." Bucky teases gently, flopping his head sideways across the couch back to look at Steve. "Between your crazy super-DNA, a crack-shot mama, and enough stubborn for a whole pack 'a mules, those little brats woulda leveled New York." He stretches lazily up and pops his neck, leaning back to stare at the ceiling again.  
"She intimidated the shit outta me when I went out there, right after- ... " He trails off with a small frown. "After...  
And the crazy thing is, I didn't even remember who she was. Just knew she'd know about you, so I ran with it. Thought I'd scare some answers out of her." He huffs out a small laugh. "Damn, did she ever school me. I don't think any old lady outside my grandma back home ever scared me that bad."

"Your grandma scared _everybody_, Buck." Steve cuts in.  
He has to change the subject because this one is tearing him to shreds inside.  
He still loves Peggy -dearly- and thinking about what he could have had with her cuts deeper than he can handle right now.  
"She had a mean right hook and a cane."

Buck blows out a long breath through his nose.  
"...I coulda gotten married some day... Had some brats of my own." he says wistfully. "I couldn't ask for a better woman than the one I got now, but… it just ain't the same."

Steve knows exactly what he means.  
When you're on the front lines of every ugly drag-out battle on earth (and a few off of it), you aren't exactly in a position to raise a family.  
And no matter how wonderful his friends in the modern day might be -how loyal, how brave, how incredibly _good-_…. they just can't replace the ones he lost while he slept.

"Don't dare try that whole 'domesticated' thing now, right?" Bucky continues, eyes still on the ceiling. "God knows what shit's still floating around in my DNA… Can't risk givin' that to a kid. -And hell if I know if I could even still _make_ one anymore, anyway."

He shrugs, giving Steve a small, sad smile. Steve honestly isn't sure either of them could, but he doesn't let himself think much about things like starting a family anymore. There's no point

"C'n you imagine a little kid in this place, though?" Bucky shakes his head. "If they survived a day, I'd be impressed."

"What, _your_ kid?" Steve manages to give him a smirk back. "They'd be just fine. Probably steal one of Tony's suits and try to arm-wrestle the Hulk. Might even win."

Bucky snorts.  
"With Nat as their mama? Yeah, they'd win."  
He goes quiet for a few moments, then glances back at Steve, his face serious.  
"...I know this ain't my business… but you should find yourself somebody, kid. Did me a world'a good. It gets lonely, dealing with the shit we gotta deal with by yourself."

"I'm not by myself. I have plenty of friends." Steve says a little too tersely. "You trying to set me up on a date again? 'Cause that never really worked before, Buck."  
Steve pokes the spoon through his mostly liquified ice-cream. He doesn't have much of an appetite anymore.

"That's cause the dames in Brooklyn were too dumb to know a great guy when they saw one." Bucky retorts, shifting to face him, his chin resting on a crooked elbow.. "I mean, Jeesus, Steve, they were interested in _me_. You think any of 'em had good taste?" He grins. "Nah, I think Captain America can probably get laid just fine on his own."

Steve's face goes pink.

"I'm not trying to get _laid_ Bucky!"

"Why not? It's pretty fun."  
Bucky's grin is positively wicked.

Steve tries very hard to shut out the mental images rising in his mind, and promises himself he's going to wallop Bucky for this later.

"I could tell you about this thing that Nat does-"

"Oh my god- you are such a jerk!" Steve blurts out, mortified.  
He's progressed from pink to crimson.

"And you're too easy, ya little punk!" Bucky laughs, doubling over until he can barely breathe.

Steve is glaring at him indignantly, face still bright red.  
"Creep. ...You promised never to tell me about that stuff. _I __really_ _don't want to know_."

"Hey somebody's gotta keep you in line, kid." Bucky manages after a few minutes, still grinning unrepentantly. "...Oh, hey that reminds me. Nat's been on my case to remind you: you were supposed to call whats-her-face a while ago. Agent something-or-other?"

"13. Sharon, I think."

"Yeah, Sharon. … Sharon Carter, she said."

Something about the name grabs Steve's attention, demanding he look closer, but he can't quite make the connection why. Bucky is still talking, though, so he lets it go.

"Better watch out, Steve, I think Nat wants to get you laid more than I do."


	85. Chapter 85

"Hello, Sharon?.. It's Steve. ...Steve Rogers, from- Yeah. How've you been?"

* * *

_**AN: I'll just leave this here...**_


	86. Chapter 86

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Things may slow down a bit update-wise for a while. I'm still deciding on a few key plot elements from here on out, and while I have them **__**mostly**__** sorted out, I want to get them juuuust right when I write them. I also have some RL things I have to be working on/out, so that takes some of my time and energy as well.  
**__**That said, I'm a few chapters out from this one, so there may not be too much of a noticeable lag.**_

_**Also- these next few chapters may feel a little slow, but don't worry, we're not just settling into happily-ever-after mode JUST yet.**_

_**Things are never that simple for the Avengers. *muahahahaha* :D**_

* * *

**Part 5**

* * *

Steve meets Sharon at a small diner just outside of D.C. for coffee and a conversation. She can only get away from work for the afternoon, so he's volunteered to come to her. Apparently working for the the CIA is pretty demanding on one's time.

He's not really sure what to expect.

The woman he'd gotten to know was completely fictional, and he has no idea what the real Sharon Carter will be like. He knows she's a highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. special agent. He knows she had access to Pierce, the highest ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. member in the world, and he knows from Natasha that she's a crack-shot. Aside from that, he's got nothing.  
Sharon could really be anyone, honestly. …And she's clearly an excellent liar, so taking her word for anything is dicey.  
It unnerves him that he never suspected anything out of the ordinary until she burst through his front door with a gun and a code number, right after Bucky's first reappearance. It was jarring experience, to say the least.  
Steve is usually able to pick out anything suspicious in his surroundings with ease, but Sharon had never triggered so much as a second-thought. Her ability to deceive him effortlessly makes him decidedly uneasy, and he's really not sure how he can trust anything she says or does at this point...

He sighs, switching off the bike as he spots a blonde woman waving at him near the front door.  
It almost doesn't matter. He's already decided to give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being. She's earned that much.

Much as Sharon may have lied to him...she came through in the clutch. She risked her own life to save innocent ones, when she could easily have just kept her head down, or worse, sided with HYDRA. He's heard from what remains of the S.H.I.E.L.D. launch team that Sharon saved at least one man's life during the Project Insight showdown. When Rumlow had tried to force the tech to shortcut the launch at gunpoint, he had refused and Sharon had intervened. Forcibly.  
That alone buys her at least a cup of coffee and a chance to talk.

The Sharon who greets him by the door, to his surprise, ends up reminding him strongly of what he always admired in Peggy; just with a slightly shyer, quirkier edge. She's no-nonsense, smart, assertive, and direct ...And she could probably take his head off at 200 yards if she really wanted to. When he notices, waiting in line, that she's also flirtatious and just a tiny bit awkward, he can't really help but like her.

"Can I start out by saying, it wasn't my idea to lie to you about my identity?" She says, getting straight to the point as soon as they've found a free table and settled in. "Not that I haven't had aliases many times before - I mean I have… but I won't pretend I wasn't a little uncomfortable keeping things from Captain America, of all people."  
Steve stares down into his coffee without comment, watching the steam rise. He's long since gotten tired of being famous, and he's not interested in hearing about her admiration for the Captain.  
To her credit, Sharon takes the hint immediately.  
"...Director Fury didn't think you'd react well to surveillance, -correctly, apparently-" she adds with a small sardonic smile, "and he suspected there might be an attempt on your life once someone got the bright idea to attack you at home - where you wouldn't expect it. There had been rumblings in that direction for some time, nothing confirmed… So, I was supposed to be your backup, just in case." She shrugs. "We thought if you didn't suspect me, nobody else would either. I'd be just another civilian to be ignored, unless I had to intervene. We ...didn't expect the attack to come from inside S.H.I.E.L.D-"

She breaks off, staring intently down into her own mug. For a few moments; and they're almost a matched set - avoiding each other's eyes.

He glances up at her when she's been silent for several moments.

"...Anyway…" She finally continues, meeting his gaze. "It was the Director's decision to make, so I sort of had to go with it." She pauses to take a sip of her drink - some sort of fancy chocolate-coffee hybrid thing with a head of foam on top. He didn't catch the name when she ordered, and he's not about to ask.  
"He was a good leader…" She says softly, fingers curled around her mug. "I really respected him. I miss him sometimes…"

"Yeah. ...Me too." Steve says, flicking his eyes back down to watch the steam rise. He keeps them there until he can trust himself not to give anything away.  
Lying has never been something he excelled at, and he doesn't dare meet her eyes now, or he risks blowing Nick's cover. He's fairly sure she'd see through him in a second.  
"Sneaky and manipulative as they come-" He shrugs. "But he was trying to do right."

"Thank you for coming." Sharon's blue eyes are intent on him. He can't tell if she's studying him or just being sincere. "I know we didn't get off to a very good start, but I'd really like to start over, if that's ok with you."

"We can give it a shot."


	87. Chapter 87

"Is this weird?" Sharon asks as they're walking through a small park, tipping her sunglasses down to look over at him. Neither of them can hold any more coffee, and the day is too warm and pleasant to sit inside anymore.

Steve is finding he really enjoys her company. It's nice to spend time with someone outside the tower who can both keep up with him and doesn't insist on either fawning or trying to murder him. He's been getting pretty tired of both.

"What, that we were neighbors for a year and a half and I never caught on? Or the part where we're walking around like nothin' happened after every global intelligence network there is collapsed on its face? ...'Cause yeah, those are a little weird."  
She rolls her eyes.

"I _meant_-" Sharon swats his arm teasingly. "-is it weird, having a coffee… date… thing, with me?"

Steve smiles ruefully, shaking his head.  
"Have you been talking to Natasha? 'Cause I told her the same thing I'm telling you: I'm 95, not _dead_. I can go out and have a nice time with a lady without breaking my hip."

"Oh no! No, no- Not that." Sharon waves the suggestion away like a troublesome gnat. "It's just… I thought it might be uncomfortable, is all...  
I mean, you were pretty involved with my great aunt for a while in the 40s, and-"  
She stops short, realizing Steve's face has gone white. He's frozen in midstep.

"... Carter." He chokes out. Sharon winces. "You're related to Peggy." He can't believe he didn't put the pieces together before now. The world rolls a little under his feet.

"You…um…you didn't know she was my Aunt Peggy…did you?" Sharon suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable. She's watching him warily, as if she expects him to bolt at any moment.

"I just- ...No, it's fine… I just…" He sits down heavily on the edge of a landscaping wall, reeling as he reconciles this. He can't decide if he's more embarrassed that he didn't realize it sooner, or blindsided by thoughts of Peggy.  
As stupid as he feels admitting it, he's still not quite over her. He's not sure he ever will be. Not completely.  
"...You loved her. I know." Sharon says quietly, sitting down a bit stiffly a few feet from him. "I heard the stories growing up. It was all very romantic, to hear her tell it"

"She was…- is- an amazing woman." He says softly. He glances up at her apologetically. "- Must run in the family."

Sharon smiles faintly at that, apparently making up her mind about something before briskly standing up.  
"Right, well... I'm guessing you're going to need some time to process this... Why don't we call it a day here? I had a good time chatting with you, Steve."  
There's a tiny edge to her voice that he can't help but feel is his fault.  
"… If… if you decide you'd like to go out again, call me. You have my number."

By the time he can gather himself enough to thank her, or even to apologize, she's already gone.  
It's another ten minutes before he finally stands and leaves as well.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**...My, that was awkward.**_


	88. Chapter 88

Bucky is waiting for him when he gets home later that night, confused, frustrated, and generally irritable. He'd really been hoping to slip in unnoticed and sulk, but no such luck.

"Hey, look who's back!" Bucky's voice sounds way, way too pleased with himself, coming out of the kitchen. Like a proud parent after the prom. It sets Steve's teeth on edge.  
So, how'd it-" Bucky comes up short as he rounds the corner, seeing Steve's face. "Geeze…" He studies his friend in silence for a few seconds, his brow furrowing. "That bad?"

"_Carter_. Sharon _Carter_." Steve mutters, pushing past him into the kitchen, and sinking heavily onto a stool. He drops his head onto folded arms against the counter. "I am an idiot."

Bucky follows after, quickly catching on. He leans back against the other side of the counter, shaking his head wonderingly.  
"Wow..." He breathes, almost in awe. "I mean… What're the odds? There's just no way-"

"-Oh yes there is." Steve mutters, still face down against the kitchen counter. "Her great aunt, apparently. She's Peggy's _niece_."

"Wow…" Bucky repeats, considering this quietly for a few moments. "I mean, it does kinda make sense... She would be your type, what with being related to your best girl and all-"

"Buck, you're really not helping."

Bucky sighs.

"Steve… You remember how you said we were never gonna be normal…?"  
Steve raises his head, ready to chew Bucky out that he's _really_ not in the mood to be teased about this right now, but Bucky's face is utterly sincere.  
"-Well, we're still not."

Bucky's voice is firm, almost scolding. Steve recognizes it from the aftermath of at least a dozen ill-advised school-yard fights. This is Bucky's '_I love you like a brother, but __**damn**_ _you're an idiot'_ tone. He can't count the number of times he's earned it.

"You wanna talk weird? Let's talk about weird. I got a swiss-army-knife for an arm, I probably killed more people than the entire population of New York without even realizing it, I'm sleepin' with Black Widow, and my best friend's _Captain-__**fuckin**_'_-America_."  
Bucky draws out a stool and sits down next to him, elbows braced against his knees. He fixes Steve with a weak, wry smile that's just a tiny bit bitter at the edges. Bucky still hates to think about what happened between 'before' and 'the big break'. For him to talk about it at all is rare.  
Steve stays silent.  
"And, c'mon look at _you_, kid: You're a _superhero_. _You __**live**_ _with superheroes_.  
The guy that owns this building flies around in a robot suit, the guy that lives 4 floors down turns into a big-ass green giant if you piss him off, and we -actually- live with a guy who takes down aliens with a goddamn bow and arrow.  
You guys've got _gods_ that come visit every couple'a months, for christ's sake. _Fucking GODS, Steve!  
__We are 95. years. old_. and we've both 'died' at least once!"

He leans back on the stool, favoring Steve with a steeply raised eyebrow.  
"Point is, we stopped payin' much attention to 'normal' a long time ago, pal."  
Bucky's eyes are almost daring Steve to look away.  
"So what I wanna know is: do you wanna date this dame or not?  
...Cause if you do, her bein' related to your ex is probably the least weird thing that's happened around here _this week._"

Steve stares at him for a few moments, slightly stunned, before cracking a faint smile. Leave it to Bucky to give him a reality-check like a fist in the jaw...  
"... You know, you're getting really insightful in your old age."

Bucky rolls his eyes, lightly punching Steve's shoulder, but he's grinning faintly now.  
"It's all Sam's fault, I tell ya. Him and Clint, bein' all philosophic at me all the time. Before you know it, people'll be thinking I'm smart or somethin'."

"Nah... I wouldn't worry too much about that." Steve smirks.  
It's well worth the smack to the back of the head that earns him.


	89. Chapter 89

"You comin'?"

Bucky scowls at him.  
"... Don't screw with me, Clint. I ain't in the mood."

Bucky's sitting just a little too stiffly on the couch, as the others move and chatter around him. Steve is pulling on his boots, Natasha is shoving more ammunition than should be physically possible into belt pouches, and Sam is doing a last-minute check-over on his wings. It's pre-mission business as usual.

Bucky is staying out of their way, to the best of his ability. He's pointedly _not_ sulking that the entire team is getting called out while he has to sit around here, keeping the couch cushions warm.  
Again.  
And he's certainly _not in a bad mood _- _so shut the hell up Stark!  
_Clint, of all people, messing with him about it really isn't helping matters.

"Well then get off your ass and get suited up, Barnes."  
Clint tosses a digital-fob locker key at him, which he catches automatically. He blinks, then stares at the tag, disbelieving. _B. Barnes #009_ is printed in neat silver letters across the clean matte-black metal.  
"We leave in 20."

Bucky flicks his eyes suspiciously to Steve, who's busily fastening one of the half a dozen straps on his uniform. Clint vanishes into the next room, smirking like he's just won the mother of all bets.  
Steve ribs Bucky just as mercilessly as Bucky ribs Steve… but the guy knows better than to tease him about something like this.  
Steve just catches his eye and grins, jerking his head towards the locker bays.

Bucky feels his eyes go wide. He quite frankly couldn't care less at the moment if he sounds like a 6-year old at Christmas.  
"Oh, hell yes! Finally!"

He's off the couch and rummaging through his new locker inside of a minute.

* * *

"You like it?"  
Steve is standing in the doorway, already suited up, when he turns around.

"You sentimental dork."  
Bucky's starting to think his face is going to break from grinning this hard. It's utterly perfect.  
"This was your idea wasn't it?"  
The dark blue jacket is heavier than his old one, probably because of all the armor plating sewn into the lining. He's pretty sure it's made of Kevlar now, too. There's a white star on the left shoulder and a small white wing on the right.  
There's also an undershirt bundled with it that made of something black, elastic, and thin. He's guessing, given where it comes from, that it's probably deceptively tough and sturdy for all it's fragile appearance.  
The pants and boots are almost identical to the ones he remembers, though they too are tougher, engineered within an inch of their lives, and armored in strategic spots. There are a frankly ridiculous number of weapon slots, holsters, and sheaths scattered across the whole thing, but he can think of a way to fill each and every one of them.  
There's even a glove, similar to his old one, to help him keep a solid grip with the metal hand.

"I figured you wouldn't want to wear your other gear, and you always did make fun of my outfit - which meant spandex was _right_ out. So… yeah." Steve looks incredibly pleased with himself.  
"You're welcome." He replies to the unspoken sentiment clearly painted on his friend's face.

Bucky dresses half on autopilot, old muscle memory kicking in like a rusty motor. It feels good -really, _really_ good- to be back in his old uniform.. or at least an approximation of it. He appreciates that the uniform is like him: the same but not.

Some intangible something that he hadn't realized was missing feels like it has suddenly returned, and brings with it a heady rush of vitality and exhilaration. He's finally going back into action. And he's finally, _finally_ on the right team.

He rummages through the small weapons locker, also marked with his name, pulling out a sniper-rifle, tiny round grenades, and an assortment of knives and pistols, snugging them into place with practiced hands. Stark has outfitted him with a small arsenal and he finds that there's a spot for everything, already designed into his clothes. The sniper-rifle, his weapon of choice, even has a special slot across his back. Easy to access, but out of the way.

"Five minutes, folks! Come ready to rock and roll!" Stark calls over the tower's PA system. He's probably just too lazy to come in and talk to them himself; despite being only one room over, already geared up.

Bucky's not surprised.

"So-"  
Steve is beaming. He must've been looking forward to this almost as much as Bucky has.  
"-Ready to go hand some HYDRA thugs their ass?"

"Kid, I have _been_ ready." He cracks his knuckles, his face nearly splitting with the force of his grin. "I got 75 years of _ready_."  
If Bucky's enthusiastic smiling has suddenly taken on a slightly grim edge, Steve doesn't comment.

Bucky does a quick a last-minute spot-check on himself. He's satisfied with what he sees - with the ease of motion his clothes still allow, despite probably 75 extra pounds of armor and equipment hanging off of him. The weight of a uniform, of weaponry, is actually oddly reassuring. It's familiar on multiple levels... including a few he'd rather not think too hard about.  
He reminds himself who he's fighting with, and who he's fighting for. That steadies him.

He whips a knife from its sheath, twirling it neatly between his hands before sliding it smoothly back into place. He hasn't spent all this time training for nothing.

"Let's go."

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**Red Skull voice - "How exciting!"**_

_**Bucky finally gets to go on a mission with the team. Let the fun begin!**_


	90. Chapter 90

"Clint, Bucky, rooftops - cover everybody on the ground. Stark, Sam, you're our air-support. You see anybody coming from above, you take them down. Natasha, you're with me. We go in, we get what we can, we level the place, we get out. Clear?"

"Crystal." Clint's voice crackles over the com.  
"On it." Bucky's follows half a breath later.  
The two of them can be seen easing into position on opposite rooftops, various weaponry at the ready.

"Ready when you are, Cap." Sam comes through, the sound of his pack warming up in the background.  
"Lead on, Star-Spangled-Man-With-a-Plan."  
Steve shakes his head, trying to ignore the jaunty humming coming over the com. Bucky is snickering.  
Of _course_ Tony would've found that stupid video online. And _of course_ he's going to bring it up every chance he gets.  
He is never going to live that damned song down.  
Never.

"Natasha?"

"Am I ever _not_ ready?" She unholsters her pistols beside him and grins. "Let's bring the pain."


	91. Chapter 91

Bucky is all the cover fire they need, as it turns out. With his best friend and his lover as the ground team, Barnes is a machine. He's moving at lightning speed, landing shot after shot, dropping every HYDRA operative that so much as peeks out a window. He's not taking any chances that someone will get off a lucky shot, an opportune strike.

He's not letting his people get hurt again.  
Not now.  
Not _ever_.

* * *

"Christ, kid, leave me _somethin'_ to do!" Clint gripes, lowering the arrow he was about to loose as his latest target drops just like the last three. "I'm gettin' bored over here."

"Sorry, haven't been out in a while." Bucky acknowledges, without slowing down. "Little tense."  
Two more operatives drop, followed by a solid _clunk_ over the line as he rams home another cartridge.

"Clint, if he's got us covered, get your ass down here. We can always use some extra stabbity-pointy help." Natasha interrupts.

"Guess that's my cue to go 'stabbity-pointy' some folks."  
Bucky can practically hear the smirk in Clint's voice.  
"All you, Barnes." He calls, saluting with his bow as he slithers out of position and launches himself down toward the action in the street. For a rough-and-tumble smart-alec, Clint can be surprisingly graceful when he wants to be.


	92. Chapter 92

"Shit..."  
Clint stands staring around the small, cramped, windowless room. It looks entirely too much like the one they raided in D.C. shortly after HYDRA's apparent collapse. He shudders, suddenly very glad Natasha made them both turn off their coms before showing them her find. This is possibly the last thing on earth Bucky needs to hear about, let alone see.

"Is that… what I think it is?" Steve stands just to his left, frowning deeply. There's something dark and angry in his eyes, and it's only growing darker as he takes in the thick metal restraints and the horror-movie-like array of machines and needles.

"Yep." Natasha confirms shortly, her hands already busy.  
She's hooking up a small assortment of explosives all over the surface of the large padded chair in the center of the room, while a flash-drive from her back pocket downloads all the available data left on the computer bank. The moment it's finished… well that's when things will get interesting.  
She affixes a large lump of plastic explosive firmly in the center of the electrode mask, running a wire down to join the rest; a cold, grim smile on her face.  
"-And it's about to have a very, _very_ nasty 'accident'."

"How many of those things do they _have_?"

"At least one too many." She answers, checking the progress of the download. There's a hard, angry edge, badly concealed in her voice. She's seen what these machines do to people, the damage they inflict.  
Technically, half the explosives she's wired up would do the job. She felt the need to make a statement.

There's the sound of scuffing boots from the hall outside.

"Back away from the-"  
A whirling metal shield cuts off the rest of that futile order and slams two men into a wall, ricocheting back to its owner's hand.  
While Natasha continues her work, unperturbed, Clint and Steve proceed to decimate an unfortunate squadron of guards that has emerged at exactly the wrong time. A super-soldier and an assassin with a lot of anger to take out make for terrifying adversaries.

If Steve seems a little more vicious, a little less merciful than he would normally be… well neither of his teammates are going to say anything.


	93. Chapter 93

" -omebody _answer_ me! _What the hell is going on in there_?!" Bucky's half-frantic voice bursts over the speaker the instant she switches her headset back on, loud and insistent. "Nat?! Steve?! … Clint?! You guys alright?! _Talk to me_!"

"Sorry, sweetie, I was busy blowing things up." Natasha answers calmly, popping the microphone back over her ear. To her credit, her voice doesn't so much as waver, though her expression could cut glass. "We're all good. Clearing out now. Get ready for one hell of a big boom."

"Jeesus, took you three long enough." Bucky grumbles, relief evident in his voice. "I was about to come in there after you."

Clint and Steve exchange silent eye contact, as Natasha makes soothing, meaningless conversation over the com.

_...Do we tell him?_

_HELL NO._

_If there are more-_

_Then we blow the shit out of those too._

There's a sudden loud crash on the other end of the com line, and they all wince, yanking the things away from their ears.

"Son of a-" Bucky's voice is drowned out by a burst of gunfire and several more loud crashes. There's a distant scrabbling noise and a dimly heard '_shit!'_.  
"Sam's down." Bucky's voice comes back. "Can't tell if he's wounded, but he's moving. They've got more air-support incoming-"  
Another crash, followed by an explosion and more gun-fire.  
"Stark's got most of 'em engaged, but I got a choice between being cover and going down after Sam... -Clint, you ready to trade positions?"

"Go for it." Clint slides his goggles down over his eyes and readies an arrow. He raises his bow and nods to the rest of his team. "I got this."

* * *

Sam is injured, it turns out, but not badly. He's got a sprained wrist and a twisted ankle from his crash landing, but nothing broken. He also struck his head on the way down, and while he's fairly sure he isn't concussed, he's dizzy and disoriented. He straggles to his feet, leaning heavily against a wall. Bucky has appeared from nowhere at some point while he was recollecting himself, moving like a blur around him, rapid firing too quickly for his dazed eyes to follow.

Arrows, presumably from Clint, soar through the air from a roof somewhere overhead, a few detonating on impact, and the roar of gunfire seems to come from everywhere at once, forming a low, familiar roar in his ears.

Sam's fairly sure he sees the former Winter Soldier lobbing a grenade up into a chopper's blades at one point as he's shaking his head to clear it, and hears the chopper slam into the ground and explode one street over.

His eyes finally drift into focus and he catches a glimpse of Bucky's face as the man reloads. His breath catches in his chest. Bucky is _terrifying. _His face is dark and expressionless, focused razor-sharp on his objective. It's eerily reminiscent of the last time all hell broke loose around them on a city street ...though at least this time, they're on the same side.  
Not for the first time, Sam's glad to be fighting _with_ Bucky, instead of against him.

"You're one scary dude when you want to be, did you know that?" He asks, back still leaned against the wall, when the commotion has finally died down. He tests his ankle and grimaces. It's limpable, but he's not going to be walking very far anytime soon.

"I've heard that." Bucky answers, scanning the newly quiet street around them. Without a sound, he abruptly whips the sniper rifle up and against his shoulder, lining up a shot and dropping an operative who's just stepping out from cover. The rifle is back over Bucky's back half a second later. "Working on the 'only when I want to be' part." He glances up and down the street once more, then up at Clint's position.  
"We all clear?"

"All clear. Stark just checked in. He got rid of his tail and he's clear of the blast-zone. Get your asses out of there so we can light it up."

"Yessir." Bucky tosses out a quick, mocking salute. "Moving out." When he turns back to Sam, the hard, cold edge that had filled his eyes during the battle is gone without a trace. The quiet, easy-going smart-alec that Sam's gotten used to is smiling back at him like they're sitting down for lunch, barely even breathing hard. "Any chance you can still fly?"

Sam resists the urge to stare as his brain scrambles to reconcile the switch. He pushes his disconcerting thoughts away for now. _Not the time, not the place._

"Not unless you can fix a busted wing." He answers, carefully hobbling away from the wall. "This thing is a _bitch_ to get airborne without a running start anyway." He mutters, gesturing at the heavy pack on his shoulders with his uninjured hand.

Bucky pauses for a second, considering. A slow mischievous smile crawls over his features.  
"How worried about being dignified you feelin' right now?" The difference in his face compared to earlier has become even more jarring.

"I just got my ass shot out of the sky. I have no dignity left to worry about." Sam grumbles, carefully avoiding placing any weight on his right leg. He grips Bucky's metal arm to stabilize himself before he falls over.

"Fantastic." Bucky grins, reaching over his shoulder with his free hand.  
"Hold this." He pulls the sniper rifle down from its place and shoves it into Sam's hands, then stoops down and hoists the Falcon up onto his back. "And try not to fall off."

"Wait a minute, what the hell are you-"

Bucky takes off at a sprint, eating up distance with Sam bouncing unsteadily against his back.  
"I'm movin' out like the man said." Bucky glances over his shoulder with an utterly unrepentant smirk. "Hell of a lot faster my way."

They're several blocks away when an impressively massive explosion rocks the ground behind them, and nearly throws Bucky to the ground.|As it is, he stumbles when the shock-wave washes over them, slowing to a trot to watch the destruction over his shoulder.

"_Damn_…" He whistles through his teeth. "When Natasha says 'big boom', she doesn't mess around."

"Oh come on now, honey, I don't ever mess around." Natasha's voice crackles over the com. He can practically hear her smirking. "Everybody come out of that ok?"

"That's my girl." He grins, turning back to the task at hand. "We're alright. Sam might need some light med, but nothing serious. Almost to the rendezvous point, see you in 5."


	94. Chapter 94

**_A/N:_**

_**And now for something completely different...**_

* * *

"I'm glad you decided to call me after all." Sharon whispers as they take their seats for the movie. The lights have just gone down. "I was starting to think you'd never talk to me again."

"Buck's good at making me realize when I'm being a moron." He whispers back, feeling his cheeks turn hot as she brushes her arm lightly against his. "He called me out for it when I got home last time."

"Oh, he and I going to be good friends then." She teases, head coming to rest against his shoulder. "In case I need reinforcements."

He snorts, glad it's too dark for her to see how pink his face has become.  
"Reinforcements? Wait, are we talking about dating or storming a beach?"

"I like to be prepared for both." Sharon smirks, holding a finger to her lips as she returns her attention to the screen. "Now shh, it's starting."


	95. Chapter 95

"You're sure about this?" Natasha asks, scanning the small, grubby barber shop from the doorway. It seems welcoming enough, if slightly grimy and under-maintained.  
They have the place more or less to themselves, just as she'd expected. Arriving at 7 am on a Tuesday helps with that. ...And going to a shop that Stark owns may also have contributed a little.

She's still just slightly worried about how Bucky will react to blades -even if they are only scissors- so close to his neck. The last time anyone came near him with scissors he nearly took Steve's head off… Though in fairness that had been before he remembered much.  
She'd really rather not have to prevent him from killing a barber… But Bucky has been doing well lately, and nothing seems to have triggered him in months. If he thinks he's ready for this, then… she supposes so does she.

A set of cheap jingle-bells announces their presence as the door swings open and she resists the urge to roll her eyes at them as Bucky follows behind her.  
Everything about the place screams '_tacky' _at the top of it's lungs, but Tony swears by them, and even Pepper agrees that this place is the best.  
She raises an eyebrow at the cracked vinyl tiles in the miniscule lobby.  
"-Like, really really sure?"

"This mop gets much longer and I might as well have a big sign on it, 'says _pull here_." Bucky grimaces, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tugs on his impressive, curly ponytail before flicking it irritably over his shoulder. "Last thing I need is a giant handle on the back'a my head."

"Personally, I think it's cute." She shrugs, lips quirking up mischievously. "And a handle can have some pretty fun uses…"

He raises an eyebrow at her, a lazy grin spreading over his face as he sweeps her abruptly up into his arms. He knows Natasha could easily dodge, but she lets herself be caught. She's smiling.

"You keep that up, you might just talk me out of it…" He murmurs, tipping her into a low dip and kissing her more-than-a-little suggestively. She lets him for a few moments, before she pushes him off, pivoting gracefully out of reach and swatting him on the arm.

"Down boy." She scolds teasingly, giving his hair a gentle tug. He's still grinning unrepentantly, arms crossed. "Cut it. I'd rather you stay safe in a fight any day. ...It'll be easier to run my hands through, anyway."

"Yes'm."  
He smirks and salutes crisply, earning a slightly harder swat, as the barber emerges out of the backroom, all smiles and enthusiastic greetings.

* * *

Natasha is getting incredibly bored. Bucky has been in the back of the shop getting a trim for at least an hour already, and there's nothing to look at but girly magazines and old issues of Good Housekeeping in the shop's tiny, dingy lobby. She can't quite decide which of those options makes her want to gouge someone's eyes out more.  
She glances at the small cracked clock on the wall across from her, with a cheesy NASCAR motif painted across it. It's been barely five minutes since she checked it last. She crosses, then recrosses her legs, and sighs.

She's just about ready to start tearing out pages out of one of the 'big recipe issue' magazines and make a set of paper throwing stars when Bucky's voice cuts through the boredom.

"All done."  
She glances up and her breath catches.  
"What'd'ya think?"

Natasha stares. She can't help herself, training or not.  
She doesn't imagine that Bucky minds.  
"It's… good."

She'd gotten used to seeing her lover with his long messy hair, tangled and unruly half the time. She'd gotten used to the ponytail, the messy bun, the elaborate braids every once in a while after he'd finally met Thor…  
And of course, she's seen photos of what he used to look like 'before', back in the 40s. With Steve around, how could she _not_ have seen them? But those were only photographs, ancient, grainy black and white things, that were indistinct at best.

Seeing Bucky standing in front of her, hair trimmed neatly, perfectly framing his face for once, instead of hiding it… that's a whole new experience.  
He grins at her reaction, looking just a little sheepish. The effect is adorable.  
_Better and better...  
_"Still got any ponytail regret?"

She steps forward, running her fingers over the suddenly short, soft bristle along the back of his neck. He stiffens under her touch and she grins.  
"... I think I'll get used to it."

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**Yes. Yes I did just devote an entire chapter to Bucky getting a haircut. It's a milestone.**_


	96. Chapter 96

"So, how are things between you and Tony?"

Sam's voice is as calm and soothing as ever, though Bucky gets the sense there's something else he wants to talk about. He's been getting that sense all afternoon, but Sam never seems to quite get to where he's going.  
It's been frustrating him for the last half hour, expecting them to get to the point any moment, only to divert back into mundane 'how's your day been' questions again...  
He's doing his best to be patient. With Sam, there's usually a method to the madness.

"Fine."  
Bucky has draped himself loosely over his chair, one leg crossed lazily over the other. He's used to the freedom to take up space these days, to being allowed to fill _all_ of the chair, and he likes how easy and relaxed it feels. He rarely hunches or slumps anymore.  
"Still a smart-ass, still can't keep his mouth shut. But he hasn't stepped in it for a while... so we're good."

"Glad to hear it." Sam's smile is just a little weighted. He'd distracted. "Not scraping anybody off of walls is always a plus."  
Sam shifts in his seat, apparently mulling something over before he says anything else.  
"...How'd it feel to get back into the field the other day? You seemed pretty excited."

"Honestly?" Bucky grins. "Felt amazing. I was startin' to feel like a slob, just hangin' around the tower all day."

"What was going through your mind out there?"  
Sam's voice carries a tiny sliver of tension to it that wasn't there a moment ago. Bucky feels warning bells going off in his brain.

"... Keep the team safe, mostly." He says slowly, evaluating Sam. "Make sure everybody comes back..." He draws his arms cautiously down off of the back of the chair, setting them in his lap.  
Sam is leading somewhere with this.

"Anything else?"

"Can't say I wasn't enjoyin' getting my own back on HYDRA if that's what you're askin'." Bucky quirks an eyebrow. "C'mon, how'm I _not_ supposed to get personal with these guys?"

"Nobody said you can't have strong feelings about it. Hell, I think _all _of us had strong feelings, so nobody's blaming you for that. I'm asking because-..."  
Sam sighs, rubbing his forehead, apparently searching for words.  
"Look... you know how Bruce has 'the other guy'?" He ventures after several minutes of silence.

"...Yeah..." Bucky nods, uneasy. He doesn't like where this is going.

"Well... I think maybe you do too."  
Sam tries to ignore the mildly strangled noise coming from the chair across from him as it skids an inch or two sideways.  
"I'm not saying you're turning back into 'that guy'." He continues quickly. "And maybe you were in control of him... but he _was_ there."  
Bucky's expression is a mix of mildly shocked and not-so-mildly horrified. His posture has shrunk and he's gone white in the face. Sam hates himself a little for it, but he's got to push on.  
"…And I have to be sure you realized that."

"I… I remember the whole thing." Bucky's voice is thin, but he's still making eye contact. "I didn't fade out. I didn't."

"I know. You were talking, you were aware." Sam agrees gently. "But this _is_ something we have to address, Bucky. We have to make sure you're the one in control out there... For everybody's safety. That's all."

Bucky nods silently, suddenly missing the curtain of hair he used to have to hide behind.

"Let's start from the top. Everything you remember thinking or feeling from the time we touched down until Clint gave the all clear."

* * *

"-And I heard somebody movin', could tell it wasn't one of ours, so I took 'em out. That was the last guy I could see, but I figured I'd better check with Clint before I did anything else…"

Bucky winds down to a halt, studying his hands. He's covered every stray thought, ever potentially important detail he can remember. Sam has been quietly noting down everything he says, not interrupting once.  
When Bucky has been silent for a few moments, he sees Sam scanning back over the notes, re-reading sections and murmuring asides to himself. A couple of additional notes are scratched into the margins.

"Let me guess, I'm back off field duty for a while?"  
Bucky had really tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  
_'Tried'_, being the key word.

"No." Sam says, looking up. "At least, _I'm_ not planning to take you off." He holds up his notebook. " 'That guy' didn't really like to talk to me, so I don't have much of a sample to work with... but this doesn't sound like him. This is all you." He thumps his pen meaningfully against the page.  
"From what I see here, _you_ aren't reverting, but your fighting style might be. That's not necessarily bad, as long as it doesn't bring any unnecessary collateral damage with it. Bottom line is: so long as you're the one calling the shots you're taking, you're one hell of a big help out there, and I'm happy to have you along."  
Bucky visibly decompresses.  
"I have to talk to everybody about this and make sure the rest of the team feels the same way… But, here's the catch: I want you in here before and especially _after_ every mission, as much as possible, so we can keep tabs on how you're doing and address any problems you're having before they come up in the field. If you don't show, you don't go.  
Deal?"

"Fine with me." Bucky shrugs, but relief is etched in every line of his face. "I'm in here twice a week as it is. What's a couple more?"

"Good." Sam smiles, tucking the notebook away. "Now we still have a half-hour left. What do _you_ want to talk about?"

"Uh… hey, here's somethin'...You know I got a chunk of Steve's exhibit at the Smithsonian all to myself?" Bucky asks, his posture slowly opening up again. "Like a whole room. Even got my old dog tags, my baby pictures - everything."

"You know Steve used to go there once a week before you came back?"

"He would." Bucky's smile is soft around the edges. "Big nerd."

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**The next update will be a biggun, since we're coming up to a fairly major event, but there may be a delay after that. Stay tuned.**_


	97. Chapter 97

Steve is stock-still, hunched in on himself at the end of his bed. His phone is still clutched loosely in his fingers, forgotten for now. He's staring distantly at something, though even he's not quite sure what that is anymore.  
He feels like he's just been punched in the stomach. A sharp, sick ache rolls inside him.

He turns his head and takes in the slowly growing light creeping across the sky. New York is turning from black to grey over the skyline outside his window. He can't remember how long he's been sitting here like this, but he's fairly sure it was pitch dark the last time he looked.

He jumps at the sharp knock on his door.

"Hey punk, you ready to go? I've been waitin' for ya for like 20 minutes." Bucky's muffled voice comes through the door, brisk and teasing as ever. "C'mon, half'a New York's gonna lap us at this rate."

Steve takes a slow, deep breath, injecting a steadiness he doesn't feel into his voice.  
"Not feeling much like running today." He mutters, swiping a hand across his face. It comes away wet. "Go without me."

There's a long silence from the other side of the door. He's almost begun to think that Bucky's done just that and gone, when the door cracks open.  
"You ok, kid?"  
Bucky's face appears around the door, familiar concern painted over it.  
"You're not sick or somethin' are you?"

"No… 'm fine." Steve mumbles, dragging his knuckles across his cheek again.

Bucky closes the door behind himself, slowly crossing the room. He squats down beside the bed, looking up into Steve's face, taking in red-rimmed eyes and damp skin. Steve quickly looks away.

"The hell you are." Bucky shakes his head. "Maybe you're not sick, but you ain't ok." He glances at the phone in Steve's hand, then back at his face. "Who called? What'd they say?"  
He gets no answer. Steve stares unsteadily at the nub of blanket poking out from between his knees.  
"Somebody fuckin' with you, kid?"  
An old surge of protectiveness floods through Bucky like a tidal wave, his face going dark. _Nobody_ hurts his friend and gets away with it.  
"You tell me who-"

"It's Peggy." Steve interrupts finally, raising wounded eyes out of his lap. "The nursing home called … couple hours ago."  
Bucky's eyes go wide with realization.  
Steve looks ready to collapse in on himself. Bucky's on his feet a breath later, pulling his friend into a tight hug against his shoulder. Steve is listless dead weight, sagged bonelessly against him, but Bucky solidly supports it all, his arm locked tight around Steve's back.  
Bucky may not be able to protect his best friend from this, but he can damn well make sure he doesn't have to face it alone.  
"She's gone..." Steve's voice is tiny and fragile, lost in Bucky's shoulder.  
When he starts to shake, sobbing silently, clutching puckers into the fabric of his friend's shirt, Bucky lets him.  
There's nothing else he can do.


	98. Chapter 98

Peggy's funeral is a simple, quiet affair, but massively attended.

Family pours in from all over the world: children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces, nephews, cousins and family friends. Some of them Steve knows, some of them he doesn't.  
Every member of S.H.I.E.L.D. still living, current or not, makes an appearance to pay their respects.  
They more than fill the massive hall designated for the event, with attendees standing three-deep along the back of the hall.

At the heart of it all, laid out like a ghostly queen, is Peggy.

Her casket is open for the ceremony and Peggy seems to float, ethereal, in a sea of cream-colored velvet and mahogany, crepe-paper skin almost as white as her dress. Frothy bouquets of daisies in delicate glass vases surround the dark wooden platform where she rests.

Her fragile hands are crossed over her chest, quietly covering the small square of paper that is clasped there, as had been requested in her will.  
Most people in attendance don't know what it is, and they're too polite to ask.  
Most of them know the value of secrets and wouldn't pry anyway.  
Steve doesn't ask, because he doesn't need to.  
He's already noticed the tiny red speckles on the edges of the paper, peeking out from beneath Peggy's withered fingers. Recognized the slightly crumpled corner beneath her wrist.  
He returned that photograph to her less than a year ago.  
Something in him crumbles as he realizes this.

When the ceremony begins, Steve takes his seat in the front row, rigidly and in silence. He stares straight ahead, hard faced throughout.  
Person after person -family members, he thinks- stand to speak about Margaret Carter. About who she was, what she meant to them, how much they'll miss her. Steve barely hears them over the roaring in his ears.

Sharon sits stiffly a few seats away, knuckles white on the handle of her purse, eyes distant. She hasn't said a word to him yet, and he doubts she will. There will be time to mourn together later.  
Today… today is about Peggy.

Bucky, talked reluctantly into wearing his old dress uniform, sits uncomfortably on Steve's left, steadying hand on his friend's shoulder, trying not to be noticeable.  
He very nearly hadn't come.

Bucky had never been close to Peggy. He'd downright hated her for a while not so long ago, in fact, and he hadn't dared show his face to visit her since. It didn't feel right to him to come out to mourn a woman he'd barely known, even if he'd come to grudgingly respect her by the end…

But the look on Steve's face when he had asked, a little too casually, if Bucky was coming … really hadn't left him much choice.  
When Steve asks, he always answers.

He followed Steve, just like he always did.


	99. Chapter 99

"Captain Rogers will now say a few words in memoriam." The well dressed man at the podium is saying. Steve stirs reluctantly from his haze, though he keeps his eyes locked firmly on the floor.

He stands woodenly, barely acknowledging Bucky's subtle squeeze to his shoulder before it's released. He knows Bucky's here for him.  
Has always been here for him.  
Will always be here for him.  
He can't put into words how much he appreciates that.  
But then again, he can't put a lot of things into words right now. He has to save his voice for the objective at hand.  
Swallowing thickly, he walks like a man condemned, to the front of the hall.

Steve steps up to the podium like he's facing down a war, face grim and set. Bucky swivels in his seat, half expecting to see a battalion of HYDRA agents marching down the aisle, the way Steve is staring holes in the far wall. Stone-faced men in suits, a few with arms around partners or wives are all that look back.

Steve takes a deep breath, composing himself before he dares open his mouth.  
He feels like he's embarking on a mission.  
In a way, that's what this is. A struggle, a battle for something vital.  
_Objective: find a way to say goodbye to the love of your life.  
_It's one of the hardest things he's ever had to do.

"Peggy Carter was a great woman." He begins.  
He's rehearsed and rehearsed this in his head for days, but he still nearly chokes on every word. "She was strong and capable. One of the wisest people I have ever met."  
He glances behind him, taking in Peggy's still face, her pale, blue hands, and has to turn away. He can feel his eyes stinging, but he blinks away the salt-water before it can fall and makes himself go on.  
"Without her, most of us would not be sitting here today. She helped save this world more times than I can count, even when most of that world was telling her no. Telling her to go home and let someone else do the fighting. Peggy never stopped. She did what was needed and she saved lives."  
He stops. Takes a deep breath. Steels himself for the hardest part. Then he turns to face the casket.  
These words are for Peggy. He doesn't give a damn if anyone else hears them or not.  
His voice is shaking, out of his control, when he speaks.

"You gave us all hell while you were here... I dunno who's gonna keep us in line now." He whispers, almost smiling, as he crouches down to kiss her cold forehead. "I'm not sure what we're gonna to do without you. … I'm not sure what I'll do." He gently lifts one fragile hand to his lips and kisses it too, before ever-so-carefully lying it back in place. He can feel his eyes blurring with tears, but he can't keep them back any longer.  
"I love you, Peggy Carter. I never stopped. And I will miss you every day for the rest of my life."

He tries to say goodbye to her, but the words won't come out. They are stuck in his throat. He just ...can't.  
Goodbye is forever, and he's not quite ready to face forever just yet.

Shoulders shaking more than he'd like, he slowly stands, aware that the entire hall is watching him, pin-drop silent. Without looking at anyone, he swipes a hand roughly across his eyes and returns briskly to his seat, dropping like a stone onto the wood, head down, eyes locked forward.

It is several minutes before the ceremony resumes and the room begins to breathe again.

* * *

The rest of the funeral passes in a blur of black suits and tear-stained faces, and before he knows it, it's over.

Steve finds himself suddenly standing more or less alone in a windy cemetery, chilly grey sky overhead, watching the last shovelful of earth as it is laid over her grave. The other mourners have already gone.  
Some have started for home, others are hurrying to catch trains or flights. Some have gone to mourn in private, and still others are gathering at a local bar to tell stories about the woman they've just lost, to remember her in happier times.  
He thinks they might have invited him… some granddaughter of Dugan's, a couple of Jones's great-grandkids. He doesn't remember what he said, but they didn't' ask twice, and they had left him alone soon after.

Steve doesn't move from his spot as the man with the shovel gathers up his tools and slowly walks away.  
Around him, the wind howls weakly through the trees. The faint rattle of drying leaves is the only sound for miles.

He stares at the polished grey head-stone.  
The words _**Margaret 'Peggy' Carter: Loving Wife and Mother - Brave Warrior, Loyal Friend, True Hero**_ - _**1917-2016**_ are emblazoned on it in neat elegant etched letters. _It suits her…_ he thinks, tracing his fingers over the beveled edge of the stone, over her name.  
The icy chill of the stone bites into his fingertips, and the memories that stirs burn like a frigid fire inside him. Why is he always losing pieces of his life to the cold? Why is the ice _always_ taking the people he loves away from him?

He sighs, squeezing his eyes closed, swallowing the tears that are pushing to be released. Some rebellious part of his brain believes that if he doesn't look, it won't be real. None of it will be. Peggy won't be dead. She'll be healthy and well. He'll go to see her next week, just like he'd been planning…

He can almost believe it until he feels the weight of a cold metal hand on his shoulder. Bucky is standing just behind him.

"C'mon kid…"  
Bucky's pale eyes are tired, but sympathetic and warm. Bucky might not feel Peggy's loss the way Steve does, but he can certainly understand it.  
"Let's go home."

Steve nods, mutely letting Bucky steer him away from the grave. He doesn't say a word as they walk, nor all the way home.

Bucky understands.


	100. Chapter 100

"Miss Carter?"

Sharon jumps, her head snapping around from where she's just watched Steve vanishing over a hill, Sgt. Barnes gently leading him. Seeing the former assassin acting the part of concerned older brother still strikes her as odd. The first time she ever saw him, he was in the process of murdering her boss and the second, he was slaughtering her coworkers.  
Everyone, it seems, can get another chance.

She feels just a little guilty for her intrusion… not sure she was meant to see the Captain's last goodbye to her great aunt, but she couldn't help herself. She'd stayed behind to say her own goodbyes, but when Steve had stayed too, it hadn't felt right to join him.

A well-dressed man in a pressed black suit stands just behind her, smiling apologetically. A tidy black hat with a small red feather in the band is held respectfully in his hands.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your thoughts." He says in a slightly clipped, unplaceable accent.  
There's something strange about the way he speaks, she thinks. Something almost practiced.  
She tries not to read too much into it. Everyone's a little off today. Mourning will do that to a person. Watching Steve break down and cry during her aunt's funeral isn't doing _her_ any favors, that's for sure.  
"I was a good friend of your aunt's," the man continues, still smiling placidly. "-and I was wondering if I might have a word with you? It's very important."

"A word about what?"

"A mission, Miss Carter. A very special one."


	101. Chapter 101

Steve doesn't even pause to think about where he's going when they reach the tower. He goes straight to the gym without a word to anyone, throwing his dress blues with slightly more force than necessary into the locker and pulling on his sparring outfit. He needs to hit something. Hard.

Bucky watches in silence as thick bandages wind around his friend's knuckles.

"Steve-"

"Don't want to talk right now." Steve grits out, lugging a punching bag up over his shoulder and carrying it across the room. He can't talk or he'll scream.

Bucky just nods.  
"Alright, but I ain't leavin'."

"Fine with me." The chain rattles heavily as the bag goes up. He gives it a shove, testing the strength. It'll hold well enough.  
Steve stares at it for a moment, breathing hard in a way that they both know has nothing to do with exertion. And then he rears back, and gives the bag hell.

It lasts all of 20 minutes before it bursts.

"C'n you grab another one?"

Steve's knuckles are covered in already-fading bruises and he's dripping sweat. There's a recklessness in his movements. A careless anger. He's still staring straight ahead.

Bucky hesitates.  
"You sure-?"

"Please."

"... Yeah… Sure."  
Another bag goes up, chain jingling in protest as if it knows what's coming.

This one lasts 10 minutes.  
The next one lasts 7 and a half.

Steve is trembling, but he still wants another one. Bucky doesn't move.  
A thick drop of crimson trickles off of Steve's wrapped knuckles, dripping into a small glistening puddle by his feet. Another follows close behind.  
Bucky watches it, feeling his throat tightening.  
This isn't healthy. It isn't helping.

Steve starts to go after another bag to decimate when Bucky makes no move to oblige him, but there is suddenly 6 feet of ex-HYDRA-assassin standing in his way.  
"That's enough, kid."

"Move, Buck."

He sidesteps back into Steve's way when the massive blonde tries to go around him.  
"I said that's enough. You're just tearin' yourself up for nothin'"

Steve stares directly into his eyes, an obvious challenge. Bucky stares back. This isn't the first time Steve's done something stupid and reckless - not the first he's had to reign the kid in. It probably won't be the last.

"_Move_."

"Like hell."

Steve's voice is shaking to match his frame now.  
"Please. Move."

He can hear the desperation, and he knows all too well that Steve will just keep going until he breaks himself or the gym. Whichever comes first.  
Bucky's not going to let either one happen.  
Sometimes he really misses the skinny asthmatic twerp that he could just toss over his shoulder to end arguments...

"No chance."

Steve tries once more to step around him, only to find all 250 pounds of Bucky blocking his path. Strong hands seize Steve's shoulders, one flesh, one metal, pinning him in place.  
"_Enough_, Steve."  
Bucky squares his shoulders, jaw set.  
"You wanna hit somethin'? Fine."  
He releases Steve's arms, flinging his own hands wide.  
"Try hittin' somethin' that hits back. I'm right here."

Steve stares at him for a few moments before letting his arms fall loosely to his sides.  
" 'm not going to hit you, Bucky." He swallows hard, the muscle in his jaw working. "I didn't want to do it before, and I sure as hell don't want to do it now."

"Then stop being a self-destructive little shit."

Steve's chin comes up defiantly, familiar stubborn fire in his eyes.  
"I am _not_ self-destructive -!"

"Like _hell _you're not!" Bucky cuts him off. Steve is glaring at him. "You think I don't remember how you get? I was there when your mama died, Steve. That's just about when you started talkin' about joining the Army all the time. Yeah, that's real safe for a 95 pound pile of health problems. Go fight a war that's killin' guys three times your size. Great plan.  
Or how about when I got captured, huh? You hear about it and two two hours later you're crashing the place _alone! _You're damned lucky you didn't get killed."  
Steve starts to interrupt, but Bucky's not done yet.  
"And then, _then_ I'm gone less than two fuckin' weeks, and you go knock on HYDRAS's front door - again _alone_- and _then **you **__**crash a plane into the fuckin' ocean**_!" Bucky's eyes flash, and Steve's protests die on his lips. "You lose somebody and you just check right the hell out. I have _watched_ you do it! You think you gotta out-die people or somethin'?  
You suicidal or just that damn stupid?!"

It takes Steve a second to realize Bucky expects an answer.

"I was never tryin' to kill myself, Buck." He mumbles. He isn't sure how to explain exactly what he _was_ doing, but he can't really deny his reckless streak has come into play before.

"Could'a fooled me."  
Bucky's arms are crossed firmly across his chest. He's still not budging

"Somebody's gotta do the dangerous stuff... Why not me?" Steve's eyes are burning faintly, and glassy with moisture. "I got the training, I got the size, I got the speed. I'm durable. If I can do what 20 guys could do, those 20 guys don't have to come back in body-bags."

"No, just you." Bucky's voice is quietly dangerous.  
Steve is suddenly aware that this has been simmering under the surface for a long time.  
"Just you in the body-bag, right? And you really think that's better, don't you?"

"Everybody dies, Buck." Steve's voice cracks, but this time he doesn't bother trying to cover it up. "Everybody. I gotta go someday, it might as well mean something."

"Christ."  
Bucky's hands are back on his shoulders.  
"Do you even hear yourself? You think nobody's gonna care if you die? You think your life doesn't mean something _now_?"  
Steve looks away.  
The steady drip-drip of the blood off of his knuckles fills the silence.

Bucky takes a slow breath. In and out.  
_Fuck it._ He decides.

"You have any idea how many times I wanted to give up and just die on that table?" He says finally, quiet and tense. "I coulda just closed my eyes... go to sleep and never wake up. Just… stop hurtin'... Woulda been a lot easier than fightin' back every minute of every day."  
Steve's eyes are huge on him. He's never considered the idea that Bucky would do anything but fight like hell. It seems built into his friend's DNA.  
"You wanna know why I didn't? You wanna know what I was fightin' for?" Bucky's voice is hoarse and sharp. "Cause it sure as hell wasn't truth, justice, and the American' fuckin' way!"  
Bucky taps a metal finger, perhaps a little harder than he meant to, in the center of Steve's chest.  
"I knew you'd die without somebody around to take care'a you. Half the time you almost did even when I _was_ around.  
There wasn't anybody else to do it but me, an' if I didn't get back, you were screwed… That's why."  
He gives Steve's shoulder a sharp shake, demanding his attention. Demanding that he _understand_.  
"So don't you ever give me this 'my life ain't important' bullshit. Don't you _ever_. After everything I did to keep your ass alive, don't you dare tell me it ain't worth it!" Bucky snarls.  
"...I stayed alive so I could protect _you_. I went back out there _to protect you_. And I fell off that stupid fuckin' train _trying to protect __**you**_!"  
Bucky is shaking too. He's needed to get this out of his system for way, way too long.  
"You are everybody's fuckin' hero these days, Steve, but you were mine first, you stupid. little. punk.  
I looked up to you even when I had to look down to talk to ya. You might not'a been the biggest and the strongest, but you were the best. Still are. So whether you like it or not, I'm watchin' your six for the rest of your stupid life. Quit makin' me work so damned hard t'keep it in one piece!"

He pushes Steve a step back, anger fading a bit now that he's said his piece. Steve just stands there, staring at him like he's just been shot.  
He takes a tentative step forward, then another. Bucky braces for another showdown. For Steve to call him a liar. He expects it.

What he doesn't expect is for Steve to abruptly barrel into him and bury his face in Bucky's chest. He goes rigid with shock when Steve starts sobbing against him before awkwardly patting the back of Steve's head.

"S'alright, kid. I got ya." He says softly, settling his flesh arm across his friend's heaving shoulders.  
"You're gonna be alright."

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**Sometimes being the strong one is just too heavy a weight to carry. That's when you need somebody to share the load. … Even if you're Captain America.**_

_**As the saying goes: "Show me a hero, and I will write you a tragedy."**_


	102. Chapter 102

Sharon hasn't answered her phone in two weeks. It's been six since Peggy's funeral.  
He's not sure if he should be worried, or take a hint.

"Just give her some time." Natasha advises sagely from the floor, nestled between Bucky's knees. She's cleaning a set of pistols on an old dish-towel, scarlet hair pinned in a curly knot on the back of her head. "She's probably still upset." She glances up at Steve, hands still busy. "She likes you. She'll call."

"Have to be crazy not to." Bucky agrees, arms draped lazily against the seat of the couch. He hands Natasha a rag when prompted.

"Yeah…" Steve sets his phone down with a sigh, standing up. "I hope you're right."

Three days later, there's a text waiting for him on his phone when he gets out of the shower.

* * *

_New Message from:_

___**S. Carter:**_

_Sorry. Saw you called. I'm working. Will call soon. _

_-Sharon_

**S Rogers:**

_:) I was starting to think you were avoiding me._

_**S. Carter:**_

_No, just busy. I got called out. Can't talk about it right now. Be back in a month or so. Dinner and a movie?_

_-Sharon_

Steve can feel himself grinning like a teenager.

_**S Rogers:**_

_It's a date._

His phone pings again just as he's about to set it down. Sharon has apparently sent him a picture. Curious, he touches the icon. The photo-viewer opens but nothing appears. He frowns.

_**S Rogers:**_

_What did you send? It didn't open._

_**S. Carter:**_

_Oh, never mind. Just ignore that ;)_

_-Sharon_

_**S Rogers:**_

_Ok. See you soon _

* * *

One week after that, all hell breaks loose.


	103. Chapter 103

There's a pot of coffee brewing and a cool fall breeze blowing in from Stark's enormous glass patio doors as Steve pulls down a couple of bowls and starts measuring out his ingredients for a massive batch of oatmeal. Enough for both his and Bucky's enormous appetites, and leftovers to go around when the others come down.

Bucky is puttering around the common room nearby, waiting to have a cup or two of coffee before hitting the shower. He's been looking up random wikipedia articles on his phone since they got back from their morning run, occasionally reading one aloud for Steve's benefit. He seems to be particularly enjoying the ones about Steve's USO days.

The morning promises to be quiet and pleasant, and Steve is really looking forward to having that for once. He's got a couple of books that Pepper loaned him, insisting he's _got_ to read them, and today seems like the perfect time.

From the next room, he hears the light jingle of Bucky's phone ringing, and rolls his eyes.  
"Answer that, would ya? Your ringtone is obnoxious."

"Yeah yeah." Bucky waves him off, leaning into the kitchen doorway to make a face at him, before hitting the answer key.

A woman's voice he doesn't recognize comes over the line.  
"Hello Sgt. Barnes."

Alarm bells sound in his mind. He briefly pulls the phone away from his ear to check the screen. _Restricted  
_...Nobody should have his phone number but his closest friends.  
"...Who is this?"

"**Остановитесь**." She says flatly. His arm locks in place. He suddenly can't move. Familiar icy panic floods through him.  
_No. No no no nono..._

"Steve!" He manages through grit teeth.

The woman is still talking.  
"You had a mission." She continues, her tone cold and disinterested. "It's time for you to finish it."

"_Steve!"  
_He hears something hit the floor in the kitchen, Steve is rounding the corner, but the woman is not finished.

"**красные реки**-"  
He recognizes the code before she can finish it, and his blood runs cold. This is a kill order.

"STEVE RUN!"

"-**будет течь**"  
The call disconnects with a quiet beep, as the phone falls from his nerveless fingers.

The world whites out.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_**Yep, another cliff-hanger. Because I'm a jerk.**_

_**You didn't think I forgot about the code commands, just because Bucky's doing well, did you?**_


	104. Chapter 104

_**A/N: I'll be gone all day tomorrow fetching my cat from the sitter and -finally- getting to enjoy petting and/or cuddling her again after two months away. SO I'm giving you the next couple of chapters now, rather than making you all wait until Monday.**_

_**Never say I didn't give you anything :)**_

* * *

He's aware of very little at first. The coded order burrows into the remnants of his programming and takes hold, yanking him around like a marionette. He sees a flash of his fist, slamming into the wall an inch from Steve's head.  
He tries to stop, to yank back control, but pain like lightning courses through him when he resists, and then he's blankly adrift again.

The next time is a little clearer. The room is in shambles and Steve is bruised all over, circling him warily. His vision is faded and misty around the edges, like looking through fogged glass. He can see Steve's lips moving, but the sound is missing. Probably trying to talk his friend down.  
_Figures…_

The world fades away again.

The next time he comes back, Steve is down, but he's getting back up. There's a dark shoe-print staining the front of the Captain's shirt as he wobbles to his feet.  
Bucky feels his body bending, metal hand crushing into the frame of the coffee table. He starts to lift it over his head and forces himself to let go. The table clatters to the ground, and Steve's mouth is shouting something that he can't hear.  
His head feels like it's going to explode, but his vision doesn't blur out again… at least not yet.

"Go!" He chokes out through a constricting throat, struggling to keep his body in check. "I can't-" His voice drops away, abruptly deserting him.  
The pain in his head is growing and he's not sure how much longer he can keep control. His limbs are jerking unsteadily, only half under his command.  
His body is fighting him. He fights back.

"Bucky!" Like a bubble of sound bursting, Steve's voice finally breaks through. "What's happening, what's wrong?"

_I'm kicking your ass, you idiot! What do you __**think**_ _is wrong?!_ He thinks irritably. _Get the hell out of here!  
_"Code." He spits out. "Kill."

Steve's eyes go wide.  
"Shit."

Bucky's tentative control is wavering. He isn't advancing but he isn't retreating either. He's at a stalemate with himself.  
He needs a distraction, an edge…. leverage.  
His movements awkward and jerky, he forces his left arm to pin his right, squeezing hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him. He presses harder. He'll worry about broken bones later... when his best friend isn't dead.

He clamps down, teeth grinding, until he feels the bone crack. His knees finally give way as the pain signals scramble his programming for a moment, and he sinks slowly to the ground, jaw clenched. It's not a permanent solution, but it buys time not spent trying to put his fist through Steve's skull.  
He'll take whatever he can get.

"Buck-" Steve is advancing on him.

"Fucking… Run!" It comes out as a wheeze, but at least the words are intelligible.  
He doesn't think Steve will do it. Rogers never listens to him, least of all about things like this. But he has to try.  
Steve comes up short, staring at him from a few feet away, stricken.

The flesh arm lurches, and he clamps down on it harder, a choked scream of pain clawing out of him as the bone fractures under his fingers. He's not sure how much longer this is going to work.  
If he blacks out, his body will probably just carry on without him. If he relents, he may completely lose control again. He strongly doubts he could regain it if that happened. It's a lose-lose scenario.  
There's no way to win.

_No._

_Not again.  
_There's too much at stake.  
_Not __**ever**_ _again.  
_He can't afford to lose himself. If he falters now, Steve will die.  
He can't back down until the Winter Soldier is truly gone, this time for good. Nobody is safe until then.

He brings his head up, eyes locking onto Steve's. Steve stands watching him uncertainly, braced to take another attack. Bucky doesn't see Captain America looking back. He sees a scared, scrawny kid with a black eye.  
His grip tightens.

Another snap, another fracture. He makes a strangled noise, eyes watering. His vision is blurring, but he's gaining ground.  
He grits his teeth and squeezes harder.

_MISSION._ The Winter Soldier's voice cuts through him like jagged ice. Cold. Demanding. Relentless.  
_FRIEND!_ Bucky screams back into the frigid wind.

_Mission._ The Soldier repeats.  
_But I knew him…_ echoes around him.

_Kill Captain America. _The Soldier recites, with wavering certainty.  
_Protect Steve Rogers! _He snarls.

_Not without you..._

_Mission..._ The Soldier's voice is weakening, fading.

Another sharp snap. His metal fingers have drawn blood from his damaged wrist. He chokes on a stifled cry and rides the pain like a wave.  
_Go to hell._

This time, there is no reply.

With a gasp like a drowning man, Bucky lurches sideways, his metal hand dropping limply away from his shattered right arm as footsteps pound in the hall outside. He can't take anymore or he's going to pass out. He's not sure what will happen then... and he's afraid to find out.

A moment later, the door behind Steve bursts open. Sam and Natasha pull up short at the scene in front of them.  
Sam's eyes travel between the two super soldiers, lingering on a battered Steve Rogers. Natasha's are locked on Bucky. Her hands come up to her mouth in horror.

He meets her eyes from his place on the floor, wobbling erratically.  
_Do it. You know how._

Natasha takes a deep unsteady breath.  
She looks away as she speaks.

"**посылка**... **два -"  
**Bucky finds that he remembers this one too. This is an emergency code that supersedes all orders. It's like a kill-switch for his brain, dropping him, unconscious in his tracks.  
It's been used on him more than once when he turned on a handler.  
He's grateful for it now. He can't hurt Steve if he's face down and out cold.  
"**-оранжевых**... **пшениц.**"

The code washes over him like a tidal wave, and he sways, his eyes feeling heavy …  
But then, just as quickly, it's gone. He's still upright, still conscious - albeit still on his knees. Bucky's eyes widen.  
Both of them look startled.

"It... didn't work…" He rasps, heart pounding against his ribs."... It… it didn't work." He has to repeat it to himself several times to prove that he hasn't imagined it. Searing agony begins to telegraph up his arm as the shock wears off, but he ignores it, wonder winning out for the moment.  
It takes him another moment to realize that his limbs are no longer trying to hurl him at Steve's throat.  
Dazed, he grins.  
He won...  
He finally... won.

...Goddamn does his arm hurt.

Gingerly, he brings the damaged limb up to his chest, cradling it against him as carefully as he can manage. He clenches his teeth, hissing in pain when the fractured bones jar against his body. Natasha is crouched in front of him the next instant, for the first time since he's known her, looking like she has no idea what to do.

"What the hell just happened?" She asks, her hands flittering from his cheek to his shoulder and back. She can't decide how or where it is safe to touch him.  
Her eyes dart between his face and Steve's, drifting down to the mangled wrist.  
"Oh my god, Bucky... your arm…"

Bucky looks up at Steve, his stomach twisting as he takes in the bruises and ugly cuts scattered over his friend's face and exposed arms. He looks away.

"The ...abominable snowman... showed up... again." He wheezes, feeling winded and sore all over. "Guess... I finally ...evicted ...his ass." He brings his head down wearily on Natasha's shoulder, exhausted beyond measure. Her arms just barely meet around his broad back, careful but protective.


	105. Chapter 105

"I'm sorry." Bucky mutters miserably after he's caught his breath, head still leaned heavily into Natasha's shoulder. He feels like he just got hit by a train.  
"I'm so sorry, Steve. I-"

"Don't."  
Steve flinches momentarily, as Sam examines a shallow gash in his arm.  
"Don't apologize. You didn't bang me up that much, and you just fought off the scariest assassin on earth - by yourself." He gives Bucky a tired smile. "I still can't think of anybody I'd rather have watching my six. ...You know you just broke their program, you stubborn jerk?"

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, finally satisfied that he's gotten the last of the glass out of Steve's skin, but Bucky smiles wearily into Natasha's shoulder.

"Look who's talking…" He mutters. "Should'a run when I told you to…" Bucky's voice is hoarse and rough, but he sounds reassuringly like himself. "Never learn...Ya dumb little punk."

"...Who was it?" Steve asks, turning serious. "Did you recognize the voice or the number?"

"Don't know." Bucky mutters, shifting to glance up at him. "Some lady. ...Somethin' about finishing the mission. ...Coded me. Hung up."

"But how did she- ...nobody outside the tower has that number." Steve frowns. "Not even Peggy had it."

"_Later_." Sam interrupts with finality, shaking his head as he releases Steve's battered arm. "Right now, you two look like shit. We need to get you patched up. _Then_ we'll worry about who's trying to kill you... this time."

"I'm fine." Steve grumbles, stubbornly ignoring his black eye, split lip, and bruised and lacerated arms, "Worry about Buck-"

"-Goddammit, don't you _dare_ start that again." Bucky groans, exasperated. He rolls his head to give Steve a dirty look. "Don't you fuckin' _DARE_-"

"-JARVIS, get med staff up here. Now." Natasha interrupts. "Two injured." She adds, looking pointedly between the two of them. "Tell them to forget about the pain killers. It's the wonder twins." She's still gently cradling Bucky against her shoulder. "And get Stark on the line."

**Medical staff are enroute, Miss Romanoff.**

* * *

Tony's voice comes through the room's speakers not long after the medical staff arrive. It's 6 AM and he doesn't sound groggy, so they can only assume he's been up all night.  
"What'd you guys break now?"

"Each other." Sam answers shortly, Bucky's phone in his hand. He's already looked at the recent calls, but all he can get from that is that the last call came from a restricted number. "Long story. We've got a mystery caller to track down. You think you can get a name if we show you the phone?"

"... Ok, A) you guys know you're supposed to fight _the bad guys_, not punch each other to death in my living room, yes? And B) of course I can. I could get your mystery friend's mother's bra size if you show me the phone."

"Just the name... thanks."

"And hurry up." Natasha adds, her hands light and agitated on Bucky's shoulders as a wary looking nurse finishes splinting his half-destroyed arm. He's lucky it doesn't need surgery after the number he's done on it.  
She helps him arrange it gingerly in a sling, as his left hand squeezes finger-shaped dents into the table, breath hissing through his teeth. The pressure of his metal fingers is all that's keeping him from crying out. Even so, he's faintly sheened with sweat before they're finished.

Steve is impatiently accepting disinfectant and bandages from another small crew nearby, reluctantly holding an ice-pack to his face on the orders of an intimidating, no-nonsense nurse, who's nearly as tall as he is.  
Oddly enough, despite being slammed around by the Winter Soldier for almost 20 minutes, he appears to have gotten the better end of the fight, with only minor (if numerous) injuries. The black eye is already fading away and the swelling around his lip has gone down.

Steve doesn't want medical attention. He wants whoever is responsible for the mess this day has become with their ass in a sling, and he wants to be the one to put it there.

Natasha certainly can't blame him. Her plan is similar... but it involves a lot more death and a few acts of such sheer, unadulterated violence that they might make even angry-Steve blanch.

"Keep your pants on... I'm on my way." There's some muffled grumbling from Tony before the connection cuts off. '_-Too early for this shit_.' and ' _What has my life become_?' feature strongly.


	106. Chapter 106

"So you have no idea who they were?" Tony asks distractedly, poking around at some hidden menu on the phone. He's only half listening as the two battered soldiers recount the last hour or so's events. As usual, he's much more interested in the technological puzzle than the human one.

"Not a clue." Bucky starts to shrug, but stops short with a wince. He's quickly learning not to move his arm, shoulder, or torso if he doesn't have to. Every twitch hurts. "After the shit she just put me me through... you'd be lookin' for a body if I did."

"Or what was left of one." Natasha adds, eyes narrowing slightly. She's seated primly on the edge of the counter next to Bucky's chair, angry tension humming through her like electric current. It's frankly an accomplishment that she has yet to put a bullet through anything.  
"I'd like 'a word' with them myself."  
The Black Widow has few friends, fewer still that she loves, but she is fiercely protective of each and every one of them.  
Hurting Steve was bad enough. She's killed people for less.  
Using Bucky to do it is tantamount to suicide.

"Easy kids." Tony waves a hand at them without looking up. "Save the blood death and vengence 'til I figure this out."

Sam glances sidelong at Steve, who still looks furious. He's picking irritably at a bandage, worrying it down to a sticky threadbare mess. He barely seems aware of what his hands are doing.  
"You gonna join in on the bloodbath too?"

"No promises I won't."  
Steve lets the icepack fall away from his face and tosses it aside, now that the nurses have gone. The bag explodes against the wall on impact, dripping blue gel into a sticky mass on the floor. Apparently it was thrown a bit harder than intended. Steve looks slightly guilty, but he ignores the mess.  
All that remains of his bruises now are a few faintly yellow blotches.  
"If you're going to tell me that it won't help-"

Sam just shakes his head, hands up in surrender. "Nope. Not me. A smack-down is definitely justified here. I'll get in line for my turn. Just need to know when I should get out of the cross-fire, that's all."

"Hey Cap, lemme see your phone." Tony interrupts, holding out a hand expectedly. He's still busily clicking at something on Bucky's screen with the other.

Steve looks confused, but he fishes the device out of his pocket and hands it over.  
"What do you need mine for?"

Tony clicks through interfaces on both devices at lightning speed, ignoring the question for now. After a moment, he frowns, eyebrow raised.  
"Oh you are _good…" _He mutters. "You are _really, really _good. ...Too bad _I'm_ better."  
He clicks around a bit more.  
"Aaaand... Gotcha."  
Tony holds up the phone, screen filled with nothing but programming gibberish, as far as Steve can tell.  
"How'd they get the Buckster's number? They hacked _your_ phone, Wonderboy, that's how."

"... Wait, they _hacked_ it? _**How**_?!" Sam cuts in. "I thought you said these phones of yours had the best security in the world. How does somebody just waltz around something like that, _especially_ without anybody noticing?"

"That's the tricky part." Tony shrugs. "They covered their tracks pretty well. Somehow they got a data-mining program on here, got what they wanted, then erased it remotely. Only reason I found it at all is the sloppy delete job. It left markers in the phone OS." He hands Steve's phone back. "I'm upping the security as soon as I get back down to the lab, but I'm pretty sure they're already out and gone."  
Tony's eyes shining faintly, already mentally chasing after this juicy new tech puzzle.  
"…Question is, how did they get _your_ number?"

"... My number?" Steve stares blankly at him.

"Yeah, your phone number." Tony rolls his eyes, as if this should be pitifully obvious. "As in, 'how they hacked you in the first place'. It's not like they can just google you. None of us is listed. Not _anywhere_. I have JARVIS scour the net in case of leaks every day. Somebody, somehow, still got ahold of your number and from there, they got Robocop's.  
All they had to do after that was encrypt their call info and say the magic words. They probably figured Tin Man would go berserk and you'd go down like a drunk prom date... what with that whole 'not wanting to kill your best buddy' thing."

"So who was it?" Bucky's eyes are quietly burning. He's tired, sore, and pissed as hell. Someone has just dragged him through his worst nightmare. Again.  
That someone is going to _pay_.

"Still working on that part." Tony says distantly, hands rapidly typing and scrolling. "Like I said, they're good. It might take me little while to get them pinned down…" He glances up, giving Bucky a crooked, slightly grim smile. "But I promise you, I _will_ get the bitch. Nobody gets to fuck with you guys but _me_."  
He smirks, turning to go; Bucky's phone still in his hands.

In spite of himself, Bucky huffs out a weak laugh. His arm burns, jolted by the motion, but he feels better for it… lighter.  
"Y'er damn straight, Stark."

"Later 'taters."  
Tony drops a sharp wave over his shoulder at the door. "I've got things to do. Keep you posted."  
Even after the door shuts behind him, Tony can be heard muttering instructions to JARVIS all the way down the hall.

* * *

_**A/N: As previously mentioned, there may be some lag from here to the end. I know where I want things to go, but I want to end strong, so I'm being very fussy about how I word things. Stay tuned for updates :)**_


	107. Chapter 107

_**A/N: Well it's been a bit, but I have most of the next big event written out (just need to do one or two more little connecting bits) so we're resuming updates again :D …**_

_**...I apologize in advance for what I am about to do to you all.**_

* * *

A week later, Bucky's arm is healing well, still bound up in a sling. He's out of action for at least another week until the arm is fully mended; but it hurts less and less every day and he's looking less and less hunted with every day of freedom from the last of his HYDRA programming.  
That, the replacement furniture, and the patched walls are the only signs that remain of the incident.

Bucky is currently sprawled back against the arm of the couch, where he's been watching some kind of garbage TV while Steve sketches beside him. He dozed off sometime around the last car-chase, and he's sound asleep, head lolled back, snoring every so often when Steve shifts to grab an eraser or sharpen his pencil.  
A graphite version of him is slowly filling in on the page of Steve's sketch pad.

Steve is just putting the finishing touches on the image, a highlight there, a stray hair here, when his phone pings on the table next to him.

* * *

_New Message from:_

_**S. Carter:**_

_Are you ok?! Heard you got hurt :( My work wrapped early, on my way back now. _

_**S Rogers:**_

_I'm fine, thanks. Back this way? It'd be nice to see you after the crazy week we just had._

_**S. Carter:**_

_Oh good! I was worried :) And yes! Dinner date tomorrow? _

_**S Rogers:**_

_Sure. :) Mind if I invite Bucky and Nat, make it a double-date? They're a little tense. Bet they could use a break._

_**S. Carter:**_

_Of course not! I'll see the three of you at 8?_

* * *

He glances at Bucky, still draped out across the couch beside him, loose and comfortable, snoring steadily now, and decides to ask him later. Bucky's had an even harder time than usual getting to sleep over the last week; between the lingering ache in his arm and a whole new collection of nightmare fuel he's acquired. He's looked worn out for days: face drawn and tired, shambling around the tower like a zombie, and nodding off at random whenever he sits still too long.  
Bucky can use whatever rest he can get, Steve decides, and he's not about to bother the poor guy for something as trivial as dinner plans.

With a faint fond smile, Steve turns back to his sketchbook and turns the page, quickly jotting down a goofy looking doodle of Bucky -snoring broadly with a spit-bubble swelled huge over his head- and adds a smiley-face beneath it.  
He's really gotten to like these 'emoticon' things that Natasha introduced him to last year, and uses them wherever he gets the chance.

He tears the page out, scribbling a note across the bottom.  
"_Went to check in with Tony.  
__You looked comfy, so I didn't want to wake you. Try not to inhale the couch cushions ;)  
__You, Nat, Me and Sharon for dinner tomorrow night? My treat.  
__-Steve"_

He lays the dog-eared paper over Bucky's chest, tucking the edge into the fabric of the sling as he stands up.  
Bucky -former assassin, man who usually jumps to attention at the slightest noise- doesn't so much as twitch, even when Steve's fingers brush clumsily over his shirt. He's dead to the world.

It's a very good thing that Bucky can't move around so well at the moment, Steve reflects… or he'd have a hell of a time securing the paper enough to survive a Bucky nap - short of using a stapler.  
Bucky has always been a pretty active sleeper, sprawling and rolling in his bed like a tidal-wave of restless energy; ever since they've known each other. Even in the tight quarters of army barracks and Howling Commando campsites, that really hadn't changed... though there had been a bit more thrashing and terrified screaming involved then...

Before the war, Bucky had done his level best to lie still when they had shared a bed during the brutal Brooklyn winters -a necessity if they were to stay warm enough for Steve to survive the night- even when he came home exhausted and spent from a day on the docks… But despite his best intentions, the stillness only lasted until he fell asleep. Steve nearly got pushed out of the bed once or twice, but he never said anything.  
He had simply accepted that a solid elbow in his back or a knee in the hip were the price he paid to share Bucky's heat. He hadn't really minded.

What he had minded, however, later, was seeing Bucky just... lying there like a rock, as still as the grave when he slept - _if_ he slept- right after they'd recovered him from the HYDRA safehouse. It had just been bone-deep, sickeningly _wrong, _and it puts his teeth on edge thinking about it even now.

Even after he'd been captured, tortured, injected with god only knew what… Bucky had never just gone -still- like that. If anything, he'd been more active than ever after his capture.  
He'd rolled, he'd muttered, he'd thrashed and tossed, but he'd never just… checked out. Not until HYDRA ripped his mind apart and glued it back together.

The Bucky Barnes he grew up with would never just lay there like... like a corpse... To see him that way had hit too close, felt too much like losing Bucky all over again, and Steve had put more than his own fair share of holes in walls for those first few months, when he just couldn't stand it anymore.

He had been far more relieved than he'd ever willingly admit, the first time he'd overheard Natasha grumbling into her coffee about the 'wiggly puppy' she'd just spent the night beside. She'd punched him none-too-gently in the arm when she noticed him smiling into his mug, but it had been worth it.

For now, since he can't really toss side to side, Bucky appears to have settled for taking up most of the couch and occasionally rabbit kicking Steve in the side whenever his legs twitched. It's annoying, but also a sign that all's as well as it can be.  
Steve will gladly take it over the alternative.

He stretches, satisfied that the note is as safe as it can be, and flexes his knees. It's a relief to feel circulation coming back, after a couple of hours parked on the couch. He starts toward the door, mind is already whirring with everything they've got to worry about, ticking off tasks to be done, leads to pursue - but something stops him. He glances back.

It feels mothering, and he knows Bucky hates being fussed over... but he can't help himself. The room is chilly with early autumn air coming in the open windows, and he knows neither of them likes to remember the cold…  
...Too many ugly jagged things to think about there.

Before he can stop himself, he returns to the couch and pulls Tony's expensive grey wool blanket off the back -a thick, absurdly fluffy thing- draping it, soft and plush, over the sleeping man. He smiles when his friend nestles drowsily into it, burying his nose in the fuzzy hem. One of Bucky's bare feet just barely pokes out the bottom, as the blanket isn't _quite_ big enough,but it's the best he can do.

_Pleasant dreams. _Steve thinks, glancing back once as he rounds the doorway. _For once._


	108. Chapter 108

"Hey Capsicle." Tony barely glances at him as he enters. "Good news and bad news. The good news is, I got the phone number for whoever decided to 'reach out and touch somebody' to death. The bad news is that does approximately fuck-all for us."  
He's still got Bucky's phone hooked up to JARVIS's mainframe, several digital windows and keyboards laid out in a ring around him, typing furiously on two at a time and jumping from set to set without pause. Tony's hands don't even falter as he speaks.

"Wait- why not?" Steve's forehead crinkles, not understanding, and he leans down to look over Tony's shoulder, trying to make sense of the fast-moving screens of data in front of him. The answer could very well be screaming and waving signs proclaiming '_read me_' to Tony's eyes, but to him it's nothing but gibberish.

He dodges back as Stark reaches across him to grab a wire connector and a length of wire, absentmindedly assembling them into a tidy cable. He twists it into the current morasse and clicks it into place before going back to typing.  
"...That should lead us to the caller... right?"

"Well yeah, in a perfect world." Tony mutters with a shrug, eyes locked on whatever it is he's doing. He sounds surly, frustrated, and tired. "Unfortunately, out here in reality, it does fuck-all."

"Tony..." He pauses, waiting for Stark to make eye-contact. "Slow down for the geezer in the room? What's the problem?"

Tony heaves a long, exasperated sigh that Steve's not sure is entirely directed at him, hands stilling over the keyboard.  
"The number is a dummy line. It was set up online by somebody who knew how to cover their ass, and cover it _good_ . There are more fronts and pseudonyms, and back-doors on the account for this thing than most mob outfits use. I mean, it's still _technically_ traceable -because I am a technology god- but they're really makin' me work for it." He huffs out a little groan, rubbing his hands roughly over his eyes and leans back in his seat; then stretches up, hard, popping loose a couple of knots in his back with an audible _crack_.

There are an absurd number of empty mugs, Steve notices suddenly, caked with a thick black tar that he can only assume used to be some kind of coffee, scattered across the work-top. Tony seems to avoid knocking over the teetering stacks of drinkware through some sort of heavily-caffeinated instinct alone.  
"I have JARVIS running a tracer on that data-miner," He continues wearily, "but that's not much easier to track. No dice yet, but if I can pin it down, we're one step closer to naming names."

Steve nods, then frowns, taking in the heavy bags under Tony's eyes. He hasn't seen Stark around the tower in at least a couple of days, which probably means-  
"Hey... When did you last get some sleep?"

"What's today?"

_Oh for god's sake…  
_"Tony-"

"Wait, wait, wait, I got this. From Monday to today... so… day and a half. Wait, no...no...two days? Two days." He shrugs. "Somethin' like that."

"Try three and a half."  
Steve pinches at the bridge of his nose. He's grateful for Tony's help. He is. And that's why he can't take advantage of Tony's workaholism.  
He's fairly sure Tony would have worked himself to death years ago if not for Pepper's watchful eye, forcing him to eat and sleep and shower. He thinks maybe he should give her a call now, and have her strong-arm her fiance into bed… He knows she can do it, no matter how stubborn Tony is. She's even convinced Thor to carry him out of the lab kicking and screaming once before.  
Honestly, Stark just doesn't know when to quit… And when Steve Rogers, _of all people_, is telling you that-  
"I think you'd better let JARVIS handle this for a while and get some sleep. I really appreciate your help -I can't even tell you how much- but you _do_ need to take a break now and then."

"Nah," Tony waves him off, stifling a faint yawn, and looking just a little more obstinate by the second. "I've gone for longer than-"

_Right, well the polite approach didn't work…_

"I _will_ call Pepper if I have to." Steve interrupts calmly, fully prepared to do so. He has his phone out and in his hand, ready to dial.

Tony stops short and blinks, raising an eyebrow at him. He frowns, before something like grudging pride twists his lip.  
"You son of a bitch," He snorts. "You've been taking pain-in-my-ass lessons from Barnes."

"I had 20 years to practice on him before you were even born." Steve remarks wryly, crossing his arms, phone still clutched loosely in his fingers. "I'm grateful that you're working so hard on this, and I know you want to lay somebody out for it just as bad as the rest of us... but the very _last_ thing we need, on top of everything else, is for you to drop dead from exhaustion. Do everyone a favor and get some rest. ...I'll even tell Pepper you went voluntarily if you want."

"She'd never believe you." Tony smirks, but he rolls his seat back from the keyboard, giving in as he sits back with a defeated shrug. He can't deny he's worn out, and Cap never did learn to take 'no' for an answer… Waste of energy to fight it.  
"JARVIS, buddy, keep going on the decryption and the tracker. You find anything interesting, wake me up. Wake me up anyway at 0900. …"

_**Yes sir.**_

"...That's in four hours Tony."

"Ah, right, thanks for the reminder. JARVIS, set the coffee timer for me. I'm gonna need lots and _lots _of coffee when I get up."

Steve rolls his eyes, but lets it go. He learned a long time ago to pick his battles, especially with Stark. _Some_ sleep is better than no sleep. … Besides maybe he can convince JARVIS to push the snooze button on that for an extra hour or two...  
He's still considering calling Pepper.

_**Single or double espresso this time, sir?**_

"Yes." Tony answers shortly, clicking out a few last-minute commands on the screen as he stands up. "And three scoops of sugar. I don't care what Pepper told you about health-food or whatever, no skimping!"

Steve makes sure Tony is out the door ahead of him, lights turned out, before he goes.


	109. Chapter 109

Bucky drifts gradually back toward the world of the living from a pleasantly empty and dreamless sleep, for once - with a bit of a stiff crick in his neck. He's cocooned in warmth, and blankly drowsy for a long time before he actually surfaces. It's pretty much the most enjoyable way to wake up he can ever remember experiencing - though, he has to admit: Natasha's version of waking him up isn't half bad either...  
He yawns, noting that the room is empty, and assumes Steve got keyed up again at some point and went to go punch something to death in the gym.  
Again.  
Like he has been all week.  
The kid's been slipping off at every opportunity lately, to hit something until he feels better, and Bucky can't really blame him.

He shifts drowsily, casting a critical eye over the fluffy grey mass that's spread neatly over him, and grimaces. He doesn't remember pulling the blanket down, and more to the point, he knows he'd certainly never bother with arranging it like this: tidy and precisely squared, so he can only assume Steve is being a mother hen again.

If it were anyone else, he'd already be up, ferociously chewing them out for 'babying' him and laying into them about how they'd better not let him catch them pulling this tuck-me-in-and-read-me-a-bedtime-story bullshit again.  
With Steve… he just can't quite find it in himself to be all that annoyed anymore. Much as he hates being fussed over… he finds that he minds it less when Steve is the one doing the fussing.  
He's still not quite used to this massive, muscular version of the little twerp he grew up with -and honestly, he probably never will be- but sometimes it's nice to let the punk look after _him_ for a change. It feels more like an even trade, somehow, and less like pity.  
He finds he kind of likes that feeling.

His mouth is dry and sticky when he yawns, and his stomach is sending him irritable hunger-pangs. It's well past time for a top-up, so he wriggles upright, yawning wider; prepared to go fix himself something heavy, greasy, and microwaveable to eat. A piece of paper drifts down into his lap as moves.

He picks it up, glances it over, and rolls his eyes.  
_Yeah, thanks Steve. Real flattering portrait there. I do __**not **__look like that, _he thinks, without heat. It's gentler than some of the stuff he's left lying around to embarrass Steve over the years, that's for sure, and a lot better drawn to boot. He supposes he doesn't really have a lot of room to talk.

There had been a time when they were in school when little Steve had been painfully, pitifully shy with girls. The poor kid couldn't even think about a lady in anything but her sunday-best without going red in the face, and Bucky had been determined that it had to stop. He'd started leaving raunchy doodles and dirty jokes all over Steve's room and hiding them among his things. Steve had been perpetually beet red for near 3 weeks straight as he kept running across them, and Bucky had been in stitches the entire time.  
He remembers catching hell after Steve's mom found one of the worse ones, hidden in Steve's school books, and how he'd nearly been banned from the Rogers' apartment over it. He'd had to do a lot of very quick and careful talking to smooth that one down...

He drops his head from side to side with a groan, as much to push the memories away from him as to work the kink out of his spine.  
Mrs. Rogers has been dead a long time. She died long before his own mother did... But even if he'd already mourned her right alongside Steve, he feels a little twinge of melancholy thinking about those lost days. He irrationally misses being a stupid little asshole of a teenager. Misses being able to get away with damned near anything. Misses not understanding yet what consequences were, how badly the world could kick your teeth in if it wanted to.  
He misses the utter cocky certainty that he'd never fail to find his way out of trouble. That he'd always be right there, looking out for Steve because nobody else will. Nobody else _can_.  
Man had life ever yanked him up sharp on that one…

He nudges his thoughts back into the present, and considers the note again, making himself concentrate on anything but moping over the past.

_Dinner out? … Why not? Nat would probably like it..._ he muses, rolling each of his shoulders gingerly in turn. There's a slight pull on the right, and it stings and tugs, but it still feels good to stretch the muscle after lying still for so long.  
_Been a while…_

He wonders vaguely what she's like - this dame of Steve's. He saw her in passing during the funeral a couple of months back, but they've never actually really _met_, not really; not even as the Winter Soldier or Agent 13. To hear Steve talk about her, though, she must be something special. Certainly sounds exactly like Steve's type... No-nonsense, tough as nails, a sucker for the Captain's doe-eyes, and a fantastic shot. The whole package.  
Sharon had sounded way too perfect to let Steve throw away a chance with her after he'd already lost his shot with Peggy, and Bucky had been firm on Steve giving this a fair shake.  
_No more moping around the goddamn tower feeling sorry for yourself whenever you're not training, twerp. Take the lady out.  
_Good thing the kid's stubborn streak only went so far.  
Come to think of it, he can imagine why this Sharon lady and Nat get along so well, too...

He's just debating if he should go ahead and cover up the obviously artificial arm for their dinner date, or if his slinged right will be a sufficient enough distraction, when Clint shuffles groggily into the room; grubby and worn out from the road. Hawkeye has been on assignment for the last couple of weeks, something top secret, and just rambled in late last night. He won't say where he's been, but given the state of him, it was a long, tough trip. Bucky has yet to actually see him until now.

"Hey Tin Man, what's this I hear about you tearin' up the place while I was gone?" The archer strolls over to lean over the back of the couch, thumbing absently over a bruise on his forearm. "I'm gone for two weeks and you're back to breakin' shit?"  
There's something gently teasing in his tone. An invitation to explain.  
"Thought you were all done with that crap."

"Oh trust me, breakin' shit wasn't the half of it..." Bucky mutters bitterly, giving a one-armed shrug and pushing the blanket aside with his knee. If there's one person in the tower who can understand and commiserate on this, it's Clint.  
"Long story... Can't say I missed havin' somebody fuck around with my head, but HYDRA never did give much of a shit about that. You want some coffee, an' I'll tell you all the gorey details?"

"_GOD_ yes. Bean me."

* * *

"So let me get this straight… they hit the 'kill stuff' button, hung up... and you just, what... squished your arm until it stopped?... and that _worked_?!"  
Clint flops back incredulously in his chair.

"Not exactly…"  
Bucky awkwardly straggles two mugs out of the cupboard with one hand while the coffee brews. He's using Tony's absurdly powerful imported espresso, though largely for Clint's benefit. With Bucky's enhanced metabolism, the caffeine will barely phase him... but the heat and the taste are comforting and familiar all the same. He likes his coffee strong enough to stand up and slap him, even if he can't really feel the sting.

A couple of enormous frozen-burritos slap wetly onto a plate and he hums absentmindedly as he shuts the microwave door and sets them cooking. He might even make another one after they're done, come to think of it…  
Honestly he can't imagine where Tony even finds all this food, considering he never seems to go shopping, but his grocery bills have got to be getting ridiculous with Bucky _and_ Steve around to feed...

"-'_Squishing my arm'_ just let me get ahold of the jackass in my brain... _Then_ I had'ta kick the fucker out. That was the hard part." He pauses, blowing out a tense breath. "...No pressure there or anythin'... Just gonna end up killin' somebody if I screw it up…"  
He sighs, setting the mugs down a little harder than intended, and they bounce on impact. One chips along the base, leaving a little trail of porcelain powder behind, but fortunately, neither one fractures. He chalks that up as a small victory.  
"Stubbornest bastard I have _ever_ argued with, I'll tell you that." Bucky continues. "And that is sayin' something. Haven't heard a peep from 'im since, though, so I'm countin' it as a win."

Clint frowns distantly, his expression slowly growing stormy and dark. He heaves a long sigh that makes him sound far older than it should, elbows braced against his thighs. Something is percolating inside his head. Bucky waits for it to come out.

"Man," Clint breathes after several moments of silence, sounding just slightly choked. "Now I just feel like the biggest asshole…Nat had to clock me upside the head with a pole to wake me up. Not even a flicker before that. If I had tried to-"

"-Don't even _start_ with the 'what if' shit." Bucky interrupts him warningly, dropping wearily back against the countertop. He can sense where this is going,and it's nowhere good. " You're gonna start sounding like _me_, you're not careful…"  
He pours out the finished coffee, thick and dark and viscous, into the waiting mugs, and carefully arranges them in his good hand.  
Clint says nothing.

"Apples and oranges, pal. Apples and oranges. Magic wand… thingy.. vs. HYDRA bullshit. Not the same." He shakes his head again. "Besides, I had the fuckin' _Avengers_ on my side, an' Captain America as my personal babysitter - still took, what, a year or two gettin' my head on straight? You had, like, a _day_, _in action_, and then they sent you off on 'vacation' someplace to disappear."  
He hands over a mug of what could easily pass as coffee-scented road tar with a quirked eyebrow.

Clint smirks faintly as he accepts the cup, his face laced with something sharp and jagged and bitter as he drops his eyes and studies the the tabletop for a few moments; then raises them to Bucky's face. The smirk widens into something like a fragile shadowed grin.  
"Jeesus…" There's a weak laugh bundled into his tone, and the tension in the room shatters like ice. "This what I sound like when I'm bein' all preachy?"

"Just about, yeah." Bucky smirks back. He takes a sip from his mug and grimaces. Tastes like chewing old coffee beans and used socks. _Just like mama used to make_…  
He takes another long pull.

"How the hell did you even put up with me for this long?" Clint side-eyes him, shaking his head as he dumps several spoonfuls of sugar into his drink. He looks vaguely thoughtful, before adding several more. "I'dda punched me right in the face by now."

"I lived with Steve _I'm-gonna-pick-a-fight-with-anything-that-moves-even-if-it's-twice-my-size_ Rogers." Bucky reminds him mildly. "Fer 10 years, no less."  
He smirks over the top of his mug, remembering shoulder-high Steve Rogers, getting into the face of some hulking asshole, righteous indignation flaring up on his face.  
_Like a little dog on a short-leash, barkin' at the mailman...  
_"Gotta be zen, with that little shit around." He remarks nostalgically. " If I'dda punched him back then, I'dda gone right through him."

"Ah."  
Clint takes a long sip and sighs contentedly, visibly relaxing. He's obviously slowly coasting out of coherent conversation mode, even as the caffeine and enough sugar for about eight people hits his system... and he's pretty ok with that.  
"...Right."


	110. Chapter 110

_**A/N: Surprise! 3 chapters at once! :D**_

* * *

"Dress up pretty, I'm takin' you out on the town tomorrow night." Bucky drapes himself, head upside-down, over the edge of the bed to grin like an idiot at Natasha. She's busy doing smooth, effortless-looking hand-stand push-ups beside his closet door. Pointed feet rise and fall like waves, smooth and crisp, as she moves.

"Oh yeah?" She smirks, switching to left-hand-only. Her balance never falters. "What's the occasion: Cap finally get laid and we're celebrating?"

"If he's ever so much as hit third base, nobody told me about it." Bucky shrugs, nudging himself upright and dropping down cross legged in front of her with a faint grin. She rolls her eyes at him with a hint of a smile, but her rhythm continues, up and down, up and down.  
"But hell, maybe tomorrow'll be his big chance." His grin is now practically a leer as he straightens up, watching her. "Apparently he and the lady-friend are goin' out and we're invited."

"What, Sharon?" Natasha hops neatly onto her right hand, tapping the top of Bucky's head affectionately with her foot before straightening back into a neat, fluid line. "Huh... didn't know she was coming back this way." she muses, pulsing steadily up and down, other arm tucked neatly against her side. "I haven't talked to her since she took that CIA gig after Project Insight went all to hell... It'll be nice to catch up, see what she's been blowing up since we hung out last."

She starts tossing herself neatly from hand to hand, clapping in between, apparently just to see if she can. Bucky can't help but watch her admiringly. He'll never have her grace, not even close, but damned if he can't appreciate it.  
"I'll tell Steve we're on, then... assuming I can find the little twit." Bucky nods, planting a kiss on her cheek as it passes him. He rolls to his feet, narrowly dodging the toe aimed to poke him in the back of the head.

"Check the gym or the kitchen." Natasha advises sagely, depositing herself neatly back onto her feet. She slides smoothly down into a front-to-back split, smirking up at him.  
"10 to 1, he's either hitting something or eating it."


	111. Chapter 111

For once, it turns out that Steve is doing neither.  
He's swimming laps in the pool when Bucky finally finds him, stroking smooth and strong through the water as it glides over him, like a bird in the air. He turns and makes for the side when he notices Bucky standing at one end of the pool.

"You and water make me nervous, brat." Bucky remarks when Steve reaches the wall, one eyebrow making a solid bid for his hairline as he offers his good hand to haul Steve out.  
"Half the time I gotta go in after ya, and I'm sick an' tired of you tryin' to drown." Steve clasps his hand and takes the assist. "You ain't a fish. Ya can't breath under water. Quit tryin'."

"Haven't managed to die yet." Steve grins unapologetically, emerging with an impressive splash from the pool. Drops of water collect like mercury around his feet as he contacts the cold tile surround.  
He strolls to a nearby chair and grabs a towel to scruff through his hair, Bucky trailing along behind him.  
"I only seem to have that whole 'drowning' issue when you're around, really... Maybe I'm just allergic to you."

" 'Splains why you hauled ass outta there when I came in." Bucky observes mildly, not rising to the bait. He settles back on a deck chair, metal hand behind his head. "Not my fault you got a thing for showin' off and tryin' to inhale every pool an' river ya get near, though."

"Guy falls into a couple'a rivers, once or twice, and he's branded for life…" Steve gripes dropping down in a chair next to him. "I survived."  
Bucky's answering cough sounds suspiciously like a poorly veiled mutter of '_barely_'.

"You get my note?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and nods, giving Steve a half-hearted swat to the back of the head. He can't let the little smart-ass get away without _some_ kind of consequences, even if they both know he doesn't really mind the teasing.  
"Yeah. We're in."

Steve just ducks the hand and grins.  
"This is gonna be great, for all of us. It'll be nice to get out and relax... And you'll like Sharon."

"Don't matter if I like her. Matters if she's good enough for ya." Bucky snorts, closing his eyes.  
Steve gives him an incredulous look.  
"S'long as she treats ya right, I don't care about the rest." Bucky continues, cracking one eye open, unperturbed.  
"Anyway, you chasin' a dame's like watching a three-legged dog chasin' a car. It's depressing. Gotta have _somebody_ around to watch yer back, knows what he's doin'."

"Gee, thanks."

Bucky's eye drifts lazily shut again as he tips his head back.  
"Just don't expect me to walk her home when you decide to run off and get your ass kicked out back, like you usually do."

A damp towel smacks against his face, and he catches it without moving, twisting it around his hand. He hasn't bothered to open his eyes.

"Jerk."  
Steve is trying hard not to laugh as he surrenders the towel.

"Mouthy little punk." Bucky grumbles affectionately, stuffing his prize behind his head like a pillow.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

_**Steve nearly drowning was a pretty common occurrence in his childhood, since Bucky enjoyed swimming during hot, sticky summers and Steve wasn't about to be left behind. Being asthmatic and just generally not very healthy, Steve trying to swim tended to end poorly and he never did learn how to back down, so it was a frequently recurring problem.**_

_**That Bucky didn't die of a stress-induced ulcer from having Steve around, instead of 'dying' from the fall is actually pretty impressive.**_

_**Steve had a lot of close-calls with drowning even **__before_ _**the crash of the Valkyrie or the Potomac incident, he just didn't do them in quite such grand style.**_

_**TL;DR:**_

_**Keep that boy away from standing water.**_


	112. Chapter 112

"Hey Cap, you got a minute?" Clint is standing in the doorway when he looks up from the trying to select leftovers in Tony's enormous fridge. It's late, and Steve is just about to cram some carbohydrates down and go to bed. He grabs a box of noodles and slowly shuts the door.

Hawkeye's been nowhere to be seen for the last few hours, and Steve can't help but notice the coincidental timing of Bucky going off for a 'spar' with Natasha a few minutes ago, just before Clint materialized.

"Sure…" He answers hesitantly. Nothing about this bodes well. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck starting to rise… "Let me just heat this up."

Clint takes a seat in silence as the box of takeout spins slowly around the microwave. When Steve sits down too, he seems to brace himself.

"There were more." The archer says quietly, not making eye contact. His fingers pick absently at the blunted tip of an arrow, rolling it back and forth across the table-top. "A lot more…"  
He breathes a long sigh out slowly through his nose.  
"We took out probably twenty. … Still don't know if that was all of 'em, but I doubt it."

Steve's fork stills where it had been stirring his meal. He sets it down as if it were suddenly extremely heavy.  
"... Where does that leave us? I mean, how many others have they-? "

"No idea." Clint answers wearily, finally raising his eyes. "Could be none, could be a hundred. Apparently you have to be pretty durable to survive it, so there's probably not all _that_ many, at least not that lived to tell… but…" He gives a small shrug, twisting the arrow between his fingers. "Couldn't get much intel one way or the other. Nobody wanted to talk, and at this point they're a little too dead to question any more."

Steve steeples his fingers, leaning his forehead into them. He lets himself breathe for a moment, and thinks.  
"If there's even one, and they manage to get ahold of him…" He whispers, more to himself than Clint. There's something hunted in his face when he glances up.

"I know." Clint sighs, slumping back in his seat. "All that progress, gone. Just like that. But he ain't goin' back, Cap. You and me, we're making sure of that. Hell, the whole team is." Clint's face is intent and serious. "He ain't. goin. back."

Steve's face creases into something resembling a tiny, dark smile.  
"I know I've said it before, but… thank you." Steve offers softly, "You've been a life-saver.. for both of us."

Clint waves him off, dropping the arrow he's been fussing with back into a cylindrical black quiver, loosely draped over one shoulder.  
"Kid kinda grows on ya." He shrugs, standing up. "Can't help but wanna look out for him, 'specially when he starts flashin' the the doe eyes."  
He quirks a faint, wry smile of his own, playfully shoving Steve's shoulder - with all the effect of shoving a boulder.  
"Quit worryin' like an old man, Rogers. We'll get 'em all eventually. And anybody wants to get t' Barnes, they gotta go through all of us first. Avengers look out for their own."

Steve nods, silently.  
Clint gives his arm one more encouraging shake before turning to go.

"Next time, I'm going with you." Steve calls quietly at his retreating back.

"Sure, sure." Clint flaps a hand dismissively over his shoulder, barely glancing back. "Worry about that later."  
The conversation is clearly over, and that's all he's going to get out of it.  
"Your food's gettin' cold, an' I don't wanna get shit from Mama-bear Barnes for keepin' you off your dinner. Get busy 'n stuff your face, gramps. HYDRA ain't goin' anywhere."

Twirling a fork obediently through the pasta on his plate, Steve watches Hawkeye disappear into the hall and around the corner, digesting what he's just heard.

It's incredibly comforting not to have to face this alone, he realizes in a quiet rush of gratitude. Not to have to be the only one to shoulder the weight… because Bucky's already carrying more than he can handle as it is, and out of their normal partnership, that would leave Steve with the rest.  
He'd started to think he'd always be carrying his weight alone... but now he's found the tower to be full of willing hands, reaching out, ready to share the load.

All his life he's had Bucky at his back, and at one time that was more than enough to take on the world... but these days, they can both use all the help they can get.

He pops a bite into his mouth and smiles wanly.

The Avengers will never be quite the same as the Commandos... How could they be?  
But they're his family now, just the same. He's not sure when it happened - when they stopped fighting each other and learned to band together… but they'd all lay down their lives to protect each other now, he knows that.

A family…  
He hadn't realized until recently just how much he'd missed having one.

* * *

_**A/N: Huh... just noticed Clint is almost becoming my srs moment indicator. I swear that's not on purpose, he just happens to have a lot of serious moments because of the shared history with brainwashing...**_


	113. Chapter 113

"Increase the voltage."

The figure in the chair is crying. Great, heaving, silent sobs that wrack her frame. She doesn't know why anymore.  
White hot fire runs through her mind when the switch is thrown, burning it clean. She screams on instinct, loud and shrill, breaking as the pain washes over her. She's panting and shaking by the time it's over. She can barely stand upright.

They give her a few moments, only a few moments, to recover before they speak to her.

"Attention." She snaps upright, still trembling, stumbling a moment before she rights herself. Vacant eyes are fixed forward, tears still flowing freely, forgotten, over her cheeks. "You failed once. You will not fail again. Understood?"

"Understood." The weak voice returns, cracking and harsh from screaming. "Hail HYDRA…"


	114. Chapter 114

_**Author's Note: **_

_**Here, have some fluff. (You'll thank me later.)**_

_-If you don't feel inclined for fluff, you can in fact skip this chapter and not miss anything important-_

* * *

"I ever tell you how gorgeous you are?" Bucky sighs, running his fingers down Natasha's bare arm, laid soft and warm over his chest. She's carefully skirting the slinged arm.

She smiles and nestles closer, leaning her head into the dip of his neck. Crimson curls spill over his throat and down his collarbone.  
"Just about every day, actually."  
She makes a soft, pleased noise, her eyes drifting closed, as his fingertips trace up to her shoulder, kneading away a knot of tension there.  
"But I don't mind…"

The massage spreads to the back of her neck, his fingers expertly pressing and rubbing away little knots and kinks. The mechanical bits in his arm whirr as it moves, plates shifting over one another like the ripple of muscle under skin.  
She lets out a soft, contented breath, and as far as he's concerned, might as well be purring.  
Natasha rolls away from him, presenting her back to give him better access, and he obliges, kneading his metal fingers gently up and down her spine.

"What'd you do to get this tense, anyway?" He asks, pausing to press a kiss into her skin. She sighs and arches her shoulder at him.

"Banner stubbed his toe on the fridge while I was making tea." She answers, face-down, muffled by her crossed arms.

Bucky's hand stills for a moment, and he whistles through his teeth before he resumes his work.  
"... Yeah, that'd do it."

"He's getting better, though." Natasha nods, letting out a contented little groan as another knot succumbs. "I thought I was screwed... but he didn't go green. Just left the room pretty quick..."

Bucky hums vague agreement and continues his ministrations in silence for a while, patiently finding and eliminating each and every knot and clump of tension until Natasha is sleepy and loose beside him.

Another light kiss presses into the small of her back and she tips her head over her shoulder, smiling lazily up at him.

"Is that my cue that it's your turn?"

"Wouldn't complain…" He grins, hand resting on her hip.

Without another word, she flips herself neatly up onto her knees, giving his shoulder a playful shove.  
"Roll over, Tin-Man."

* * *

Bucky's back is like Steve's: a solid wall of muscle, and a constant mass of tension. Probably because they were both artificially enhanced beyond what their bodies were meant for.  
_Weird science, weird side effects._

He can't lie flat, not with his arm in a sling, so he sits before her, the planes of his back rising up in front of her like a rock-face to be scaled.  
She ends up having to dig in her fingertips just to find purchase, but then, this isn't her first time on this particular mountain. She approaches her task like any other mission - assess and execute. Use fingernails where warranted. Patience.  
Knots fall beneath her agile fingers in droves, and she's gratified to see his rigid posture slowly begin to sag.

After a minute or two of her attention, he's blinking lazily, making contented noises as the heels of her hands shimmy up and down his spine.  
A heavy sigh hisses out of him when she shifts her focus to the seam of his shoulder, where flesh meets metal. The muscles there might as well be metal too for all the give in them.

This is always the most time-consuming bit of the process, but she makes a point to attend to it in particular every night, as circumstances allow. The joint is always tight and tender from the sheer stress of supporting so much weight and machinery, and she knows it aches if not cared for regularly. Any time they miss an evening, she'll notice him running his hand over the soreness there all day, grimacing to himself.

She traces over the network of scars that lace the side of his chest, and takes the time to trail kisses in her wake, hands grasping, rubbing, kneading over the pale, ridged skin. It warms and loosens under her hands, and she can feel more than hear the sigh of relief he let's slip when it does.  
Like a dam giving way, eventually the shoulder begins to sink as the tension leaves it, lower and lower until he's all but leaning against her. Bucky's face is blissfully sleepy when she guides him down onto his back, heavy-lidded eyes focused on her face. She nuzzles gently into the hand that tangles in her hair.

"You are.. the fuckin' best…" He murmurs dreamily, caressing the back of her head as she sinks down to meet him.

"да." She smirks when they break apart. "Now sleep, старик."  
It's one of her favorite pet-names for him.  
She settles down into the mattress beside him, leaning their foreheads together affectionately, feeling the warm intimate tickle of his breath on her face.

"Yes Ma'am, паук королева." He smirks back, closing his eyes and draping his free arm over her waist, tugging her closer.

She snorts, and shoves at him none-too-gently with her foot.  
"Smart-ass." She murmurs into the bridge of his nose.

* * *

да = yes

старик = old man

паук королева = spider queen


	115. Chapter 115

The morning dawns in an unpleasant display of everything awful about November in New York City. The air is cold, damp, and unwelcoming. A persistent chilly drizzle saturates everything foolish or unfortunate enough to be out of doors. The sky looms close overhead, almost threateningly, claustrophobic and grey; promising nothing but more rain.  
Everything looks dulled by the dim, misty skies, and the effect is dark and depressing.

The inhabitants of the tower feel the effects of the weather.

They stir, en masse, sometime around dawn, feeling uneasy and compressed. The Avengers all find themselves gathering in the common room, restless and groggy at 6 am, and somehow end up clumped tightly together on the couch: yawning and muttering in a colorful assortment of swears. They stay that way for a good chunk of the morning.

When Sam, ever the caretaker of the group, eventually makes a drowsy offer to start a pot coffee, it sets off a chain reaction of sorts. They can't seem to stop.  
Every time the pot empties, someone starts another, and then another. Clint drinks most of one all on his own, straight out of the carafe. Natasha rolls her eyes at him.  
In the end, everyone ends up downing a lot more coffee than is strictly necessary; mug after mug after mug of heat and comfort, until, on top of everything else, they feel tired _and_ jittery.

Even Tony seems a little quieter and less enthusiastic than usual this morning, though it's more likely that the caffeine just hasn't hit him yet. As much of the stuff as he drinks, it's amazing he can even feel it at all.  
He perks up some when JARVIS announces to the room in general that there may be some progress from the tracker, and starts muttering a furious string of techno-jargon that no one else really understands. He launches himself up off of the couch with considerably more commentary and less grace than necessary, and vanishes into his lab for the rest of the day.  
No one bothers to acknowledge it, outside of the grumbling they're all already doing.

Steve, Sam, and Bucky are awake and assembled by 5 am... but they end up whiling away most of the morning hours, plastered against the couch instead of heading out. They lie around, feeling listless and out of sorts, continually telling each other how they'd better get moving, and continually doing anything but.  
They don't leave the tower until close to 8 o'clock, and by then morning rush-hour is in full force.  
Their run ends up takes a full 30 minutes longer than usual, and they find themselves even more wound up upon return - largely because of the traffic and over-crowded streets.  
The exercise has done absolutely nothing to diffuse the expectant gloom in the air, and all three of them are clammy with damp and sweat when they finally tumble in the door.

* * *

Most of the others have already dispersed by the time the trio reaches the common room, but Natasha remains slumped comfortably in the center of the couch, precisely where they'd left her, a tablet in her lap, idly scrolling through some sort of website. Upon closer examination, it turns out to be the site for the (ostentatiously) fancy restaurant where they'll be eating tonight.  
When Sam makes a joke about her casing the place and memorizing the exits, she doesn't laugh. Just fixes him with an expression that clearly reads '_well duh', _and goes back to what she was doing.

He shakes his head and leaves to take a shower, complaining loudly about how disgusting he feels; but Steve and Bucky end up flopping lazily over what remains vacant of the couch, each of them taking up nearly a full half with Natasha sitting in between them, completely unruffled by the intrusion.  
They're tired, restless, and irritable.  
Showering can wait a while.

"You two look worn out." Natasha observes, without looking up. There's a faint hint of a crooked smirk on her lips. "Sucks getting old, huh?"

She ignores Bucky's rude hand gesture, tossing her hair neatly back over one shoulder.  
"Sorry, honey, I'm busy right now. Maybe later."

Steve turns pink and loudly clears his throat.

"Hey, I'm not the one who promised they wouldn't share gory details." She reminds him mildly, absorbed in her browsing. She's sizing up a floor-plan that she's dug out of somewhere, her slender fingers drag it around on the screen, studying different angles. "Now, Bucky might have to keep his mouth shut; but for me?" She looks up, batting her lashes winningly, a predatory smirk on her face. "You're fair game, Rogers."

"Shower." Steve mutters, feeling his ears going scarlet as he quickly extricates himself. He wants to be out of the room before Natasha can warm up too much to her new topic. "I need a shower."

"Wuss." She grins at his retreating back.

Without thinking, he mimics Bucky's gesture over his shoulder.

"Wait your turn!" Bucky calls after him.  
Steve makes a mortified noise and walks faster. He can hear the both of them near hyperventilating with laughter behind him.


	116. Chapter 116

"Look at _you_…" Natasha circles slowly, a vision in black silk, taking in the full effect of Bucky Barnes dressed to the nines. Even if his jacket is draped loosely over one shoulder to accommodate the injured arm, he cuts a pretty striking figure. "Why haven't I made you dress up before?"

"'Cause I'm a lazy slob these days, an' schlep around in jeans all the time?"  
He tugs self-consciously at his tie for the 80th time, even if it's already perfectly set. He feels oddly naked, dressing up without his normal pomade... which could admittedly probably double as shoe-polish. He's been soundly informed that nobody uses that stuff anymore.  
...And that it stinks.  
_This is a classy establishment, Barnes. You can't go in there smelling like a glue factory._ Tony had told him dismissively, when he'd asked for help tracking the stuff down.

" 'Were'." Natasha corrects him, clucking her tongue approvingly as she completes one more circuit. "_Were_ a lazy slob. It's too late now, I've seen you in a suit." She grins up at him. "I'm gonna need to dress you up and show you off a lot more often."

"I'm not gonna have to dance for loose change, am I?"

She tisks, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose and give him a shove toward the door.  
"Don't undersell yourself. You could bring in at least a few dollars at a time."

"Gee, thanks."


	117. Chapter 117

The restaurant is everything promised online and more. It even has a doorman who offers to take their coats on the way in, and valet parking.  
Huge ornate plaster columns stretch up into the sky on either side of the door, twisted with carefully groomed ivy and flecked here and there with gold-leaf. Somehow, despite the chill, there are elegantly landscaped flowers still blooming in little brick planters that flank the columns in neat rounded tiers.  
A plush, royal-blue carpet leads from the curb, beneath a tasteful black awning, up to the frankly enormous white-washed french doors. Quiet, formless jazz pipes in from well-hidden speakers somewhere in the fabric of the awning.

Bucky stops and stares for a moment, taking it all in.  
He's gotten used to over-the-top by now - he lives with Stark after all. But this… this is something else. This is _classy_.  
He's grateful that at least Steve looks equally awed, even if Natasha doesn't appear to notice the grandeur. She looks right at home, strolling toward the doors like she owns the place, tugging the both of them along in her wake.

A pretty blonde in midnight blue, hair pinned up in tidy ringlets, stands waiting for them by the entrance. She smiles when she spots Steve, and waves. Sharon is a little shyer than Bucky would've expected, a little softer and a little less forceful, given how lethal she apparently is. Almost… timid in a strange way. But when she looks up at Steve and her face goes warm and bright, he decides he likes her. How could he not?

* * *

"Sharon, I'd like you to meet Bucky Barnes. You remember I told you about him? And Buck, this is Sharon Carter."

Sharon smiles warmly up at him, and he's reminded a bit of Peggy Carter at their first official meeting. The resemblance is definitely there, even if Sharon seems a little less… irritated. Peggy never had liked him much.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Bucky." She holds out a hand for him to shake, which he accepts hesitantly. He'd much rather use his flesh hand when it comes to touching strangers, but that's not really an option right at the moment. If Sharon notices, she gives no sign.  
"I remember reading all about you in history class back in highschool, I hope that's not weird.  
And of course growing up in _my_ family… well you hear all the stories about a hundred times." She lets the subject of family drop there, and he's grateful.  
The last thing he wants hanging over their meal is the spectre of Peggy's death and painful memories of old friends.  
"I even did a thesis paper about you in undergrad." She adds, apparently unaware of how close to awkward territory she's just stepped, leaning in conspiratorially, "I got a B minus."  
He can't help the little snort of laughter at that. The way she says it, like it's some vital piece of intel... He can see why Steve likes this girl.

* * *

They're halfway through soups and salads when Natasha's phone rings inside her tidy little handbag. She ignores it, quietly tapping the screen to disconnect the call.  
… at least it rings three more times.

With a sigh, she pulls it out and covertly checks the number, rolling her eyes.  
_Yes. Same as the last three. Probably important, then…_

"Sorry kids, I have to take this." She mutters, excusing herself from the table. "Back in a few minutes."

Near the door, she finds a quiet corner by the coat-check and hits the call-back key. This had better be good, her french-onion is getting cold…


	118. Chapter 118

Tony checks the data again, just to be sure. He'd half suspected the hack was an inside job, but without evidence, there had been no way to prove it, let alone to know who the culprit was. Now he's got a culprit and whole hell of a lot more questions than he started with.

A deceptively dainty-looking, pretty little blonde thing is posed with a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge and a gun on the screen.  
There's no way this chick is working alone. Even with her skills, her training, and her connections, there's just no way.  
HYDRA's not dead yet. Not by a long-shot. Not if they still had the resources to back this up.

"Hey JARVIS, remind me: where's Cap and co at tonight?"

**_Captain Rogers, Miss Romanoff, and Sergeant Barnes are attending a dinner engagement with Miss Carter this evening._**

He blinks at the name, turning back to the delicate face looking up out of the file photos in his hands.  
_Fuck…_

"Sharon. Sharon Carter?"

**_Yes, sir._**  
_Double fuck._

Rogers is on a date with the grim reaper. Fabulous.  
Now how does he warn the giant moron that his girlfriend's been compromised?

Crashing dinner out of the blue isn't really a good option. He doubts he can make it across town in time, even in in the suit, and just his showing up could trigger something; leaving the others just as flat-footed and just as potentially dead.

Rogers has absolutely no poker-face, and he'll give the game away within 10 seconds, meaning Murder-bot Barbie will probably catch on as soon as he answers the phone and start offing people… Calling him is a waste of time and data charges.

He can't call Barnes. The Iron Giant's phone is still sitting here on the table.

Natasha has already threatened to do some very creatively violent things to him if he interrupts her date night... but she probably won't _actually_ flay him if it's an emergency…

Romanoff it is.

* * *

_**A/N: Oopsy, formatted JARVIS-speak wrong. Fixed now :D**_


	119. Chapter 119

"_What_, Stark?" Natasha's voice is impatient and clearly irritated.

"Get out of there. Now."  
He doesn't waste time with greetings. She'll hang up on him if he chatters. She's done it before.  
"I'm on my way with backup. Carter's compromised."

"Wait, what? She's…" He can hear the realization in the abrupt hitch of breath that comes over the line. "Oh son of a _bitch_-"

* * *

Natasha jumps, the phone in her hands nearly dropping out of her fingers as the low soft-jazz of the place suddenly drops away. She turns, too slow, as harsh, clear syllables, bitten off in a cold, impatient voice, crackle over the speakers instead.

"_**Thirteen. Burn the flag.**_"

Silence falls.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

_**This is why we can't have nice things.**_


	120. Chapter 120

_**A/N: Poor Steve and co... **_

* * *

In the middle of a story about her boot-camp days, Sharon goes rigid in her seat, the words dying on her lips. Her eyes unfocus, going blank and empty, as her hands begin to shift for her purse.  
Bucky's hair stands on end.

He doesn't recognize the phrases they're using, but he knows a coded order when he hears it. He knows that tone entirely too well to mistake it.  
Worse, he recognizes the look in Sharon's empty eyes, and he _knows _immediately what it means. Things are about to get very, very bad.

Across the room, Natasha is already in motion, but she'll never get back to the table in time.

"Everybody clear out! Move! Move now!" Natasha is screaming as she runs, kicking off her heels for better agility as she goes.  
She's too far away, and people are staring, confused but still seated, and they're all potential targets, potential liabilities, until she finally screams "There's a _bomb_!" out of frustrated desperation.  
Then people are clamboring to escape, running and falling over each other. She shoves her way through them impatiently.  
It clears the room, at least.

Beside him, Steve seems to recognize the signs as well.  
There's an uncomprehending look of sheer horror on Steve's face, and he's already moving, but he's too stunned to get out of the way fast enough. He's half out of his chair, staring at Agent Carter like a deer in the headlights.  
_Not you too… Please, not you too..._

His brain is a useless mush of empty white static as he stares at her. It feels like moving through quick-sand as he tries to stand, to take cover, to _think_.  
_Please not again… I just got one friend back. Don't make me do this __**again**__._

Bucky shoulders him aside just in time as Sharon shoves her chair back, bringing out a pistol and leveling it at his face. She adjust her aim to follow them to the floor, already squeezing off a shot before they've even finished falling. Her aim is perfect.  
It goes right into Bucky's metal arm, thrown in front of Steve's face at the last possible moment, the bullet ricocheting off into a wall with a metallic ping.

Sharon adjusts to point the barrel right between Bucky's eyes. and he lunges, swiping a sharp kick at her ankles as he drags Steve up and behind an ornate column, before she can regain her balance and fire.

They're at a disadvantage here, and he knows it - unarmed and unprepared. His right arm is still in a sling, and too weak to be of much use even if he wanted to push himself to use it.  
Natasha had the sense to case the place, but other than her Widow's Bite, she's not armed either. They let their guard down, and now they're paying for it.

He mentally takes stock, swearing under his breath. They still don't know who's calling the shots, and what kind of back-up plan they might have. He doesn't know if another assailant is about to pop out of the woodwork or not.  
HYDRA are plenty sick and sadistic enough to use Steve's friends, even his girlfriend, against him, but they're not usually stupid enough to take pointless chances. That means there are probably more of them waiting in the wings somewhere…

His mind races, trying to tie together all the possibilities, all the angles. Strategy has never been his strongest suit, and it still isn't. He always relied on Steve to form the plans... but Steve isn't really going to be of much help at the moment.  
He knows the big idiot can't and won't attack Sharon, the same way he refused to fight Bucky on the carrier years ago...

The little twit he grew up with, who could never walk away from a fight when he was nothing but determination and stubbornness shoved into human form, has apparently finally learned how to back down... Apparently now makes exceptions for people he doesn't want to hurt.  
...Which would work a whole lot better for keeping him alive if he'd stop making exceptions for people who are _trying to fucking kill him_!

Steve isn't going to be a player in this combat, Bucky decides. He can't be. Steve's a liability at best, which means it's up to Bucky, as usual, to keep the punk out of harm's way until Nat takes Sharon out. Then … then he guesses they just have to hope nobody else starts sniping at their backs before they've sorted out who's who.

He unconsciously feels himself reaching for the side-arm that should be at his hip, frowning as he remembers.  
_Right…  
_… God does he wish he still carried at least a knife with him everywhere he goes. A pistol, a smoke-bomb… hell ANYTHING.  
... Even if it's too close to the Soldier he used to be, even if he's already spilled more blood than he can ever forgive himself for, he'd give his remaining arm for just about any weapon right now. He'd even take Dugan's crappy old shotgun, he's not fussy.

He's not entire sure what it says about him that while he'd feel kind of bad for putting holes in Steve's lady-friend when she's obviously not in control... he wouldn't feel nearly bad enough to prevent him doing it anyway, if it came down to that.  
If the choice is Steve's life or hers… he's sure Sharon's a real nice girl, but that's one coin-toss she's going to lose.

Steve starts trying to push past him, and Bucky plants a hand firmly in the center of his chest, shoving him back into the corner, where it's at least mostly safe. He plants himself in the way of anyone trying to come or go, bracing himself to shield them as best he can with his metal arm. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.

Steve tries to go around again, and Bucky roughly shoulders him back.  
_Like __**hell**_ _Steve's going out there unarmed.  
__The idealism's cute, and all, but no fuckin' way.  
_"What _is_ it with you and dames tryin' to shoot you in the face?!" Bucky snarls, frustrated.

It's really getting to be too much of a habit, Steve's dates trying blow his head off...

* * *

Sharon has regained her feet and she's moving to pursue when Natasha lunges for her from a few feet away, taking the opportunity while Sharon is occupied and distracted. She very narrowly avoids being shot herself when Sharon whirls on her and fires, by twisting awkwardly in midair.

The bullet grazes past Natasha's shoulder, leaving a hot painful welt as it passes, before the two women collide, tumbling to ground. They scramble over one another, trying to get the upper hand. Natasha is already fumbling her way up to strike, Widow's Bite at the ready, but Sharon is faster.

Natasha's eyes suddenly go wide and her breath explodes out of her in a sharp gasp. There's a plainly audible snap of electricity and a blinding flash as her entire body goes painfully rigid, spasming hard for a long moment that feels like forever, before she collapses, limp, in a heap on the floor. Sharon stands impassively, yanking the twin barbs of a faintly blue-glowing taser free from the Black Widow's prone body before resuming her hunt. Two faint trails of black smoke drift from the barbs. Natasha doesn't move.

"Nat!" Bucky impulsively shifts around the pole, panicked, only to have to snap back again before a shot takes his head off. A cloud of plaster dust hangs in the air, around a large round spiderweb crack. Chunks of plaster drop to the ground.  
_Fuck, fuck fuck… she's not moving. She's not moving…  
_Bucky's heart is pounding.  
He can't get to her, not with Sharon still active, but he can't tell if she's breathing from here. He'll never forgive himself if she's not...

Too late, he feels Steve brushing past him.  
Bucky fumbles to grab for him, to haul him back, but Steve is already out of reach. His fingers pass through empty air

"Sharon stop! Please!"  
Steve is slowly approaching Sharon with his hands up, pleading with her to stand down. The idiot doesn't even have his shield.  
He's a sitting duck.  
"I don't want to hurt you… Don't do this. ...I know you don't want to hurt us either. We're your friends." Steve continues placatingly, apparently convinced that this is helping.

Bucky hesitates, his attention torn between the outright stupidity of what Steve is doing and worry that Natasha is still down, still unmoving…  
There's nothing he can do for Natasha right now… but he might still be able to do something about Steve.  
He weighs his options inside of a few seconds. How does he get Steve back under cover before he gets himself killed?

If he interrupts this, Sharon might get spooked and just take her chance to put Steve down before he can stop her. If he waits… hell, maybe Steve will somehow get through… maybe he can diffuse the situation before anyone else gets hurt...

_And maybe I'll turn into the Easter Bunny._

Sharon's expression never flickers. There is no sign of recognition as she rams home a fresh clip. No sign that she's even heard.  
Swearing under his breath, Bucky realizes in sudden sickening clarity _exactly_ how this is going to end.

Sharon is not him. She doesn't have the history with Steve to force her back from the edge, the years of questioning fragmented memory.  
Sharon is a shiny new toy, freshly minted. They haven't given her time to develop cracks in the armor yet.  
HYDRA learned from their mistakes with the Winter Soldier. They won't make the same mistakes again.

She won't hesitate.

"Steve, get down!" He screams, breaking cover as the pistol comes up. He's desperately aiming for Steve's knees, hoping to push him out of harm's way.

Everything happens in slow motion.

He knows before it happens that he won't get there in time.  
He sees Steve's eyes going wide as the safety clicks back, and the gun levels at his chest. It's too late to take cover now.

Sharon's slender hands are steady as a rock as she aims, then pulls the trigger, barely flinching at the kick-back.  
Once.  
Twice.  
Three times.  
Four.

Steve slams backward with a strangled, guttural noise, and skids for several inches before he ends up crumpled on the floor like a broken marionette.

He doesn't move.


	121. Chapter 121

Her mission accomplished, Sharon stands mutely for a moment, staring at her handiwork; as if she's not quite sure what to do next. Then she turns to Bucky who has slid to a halt too late, crouched in open-mouthed in horror on the floor beside his friend. She raises the gun again, ready to finish tying up loose ends, still looking utterly disinterested in the carnage she's just caused.

Bucky stares helplessly up into the barrel through a fog, motionless. He knows he's about to die, but right now, he just doesn't care. He can't summon the presence of mind to bother reacting over the shock.

Her finger is already on the trigger, and he watches it tense with morbid fascination... before a flash of red-hair and black silk abruptly collides with Sharon's back, knocking Agent Carter straight off of her feet.  
Natasha isn't holding back anymore, if she ever was.  
She and Sharon are friends, but they're not close enough for mercy after what she's just done. Avengers protect their own, and the Black Widow is not a force to be taken lightly.

Natasha has a fistfull of blonde hair before they even reach the ground, and she snaps it viciously into the floor, over and over, until something cracks and woman beneath her stops fighting back.  
She slams her opponent's head into the ground once or twice more, just to satisfy herself that the compromised Agent is truly down, before slowly limping to her feet.

There's a soft scuffling from the kitchen and she whirls automatically, Sharon's pistol in hand, dropping a man in a chef's uniform before he can level the rifle in his hands. He collapses, weapon clattering loudly in the weighted silence.  
No one else appears.

She stares down at the pistol in her hand for a moment, then throws away from her, as far as she can get it. Slowly turns back to the scene behind her. Her breath catches in her throat as she takes in the damage.

She stands, fixed and shaking.  
Disbelieving.

Captain America is down.


	122. Chapter 122

_**A/N: Warning, this one's kind of intense. Brace yourselves.**_

* * *

Steve lies flat on his back like he's been thrown there, shock clear on his slowly paling face. Bucky kneels helplessly beside him, blood already seeping relentlessly into his clothes. It's far too steady to be sustainable. He's drowning in it.  
_No. No no no nononononono…..  
_He feels more lost than he has ever been before. He can't breathe.

Natasha takes a hesitant step forward, then stops.  
She drags out her phone with numb fingers and redials, hands shaking. Her eyes are wide and glassy with the tears she's not shedding.  
She barks 'Cap is down, it's bad' the instant it connects and her voice shivers and cracks as she tosses out instructions that are practically orders to Stark about getting a team in here _ten minutes ago_ then flings the phone aside. She can feel herself trembling, feel emotion clawing its way out of her chest, but she swallows it back.  
She can't break. Not now. She has to keep it together.  
For all of them.

* * *

Bucky is staring down a black, empty tunnel, and it's growing narrower by the second. He can't see anything but the blood; the wide, frightened blue eyes that have clearly reached the same conclusion Bucky has, only a few seconds behind.  
He can't hear anything but the rasp and too-wet rattle coming from his friend's chest. It sounds like the world coming down. Try as he might, he can't reconcile the nightmare in front of his eyes to reality. To do that would drown him, adrift in ice and fractured memory again, and this time he doesn't think he'd ever find his way back.

The medical team won't make it in time. He already knows that.  
Even if they were right here, right now, they couldn't make it in time.  
He knows, just as Natasha does, without having to come closer. They've both seen too many men die in too many ways to lie to themselves.  
He knows. ...  
Goddamn him, he _knows_.

It's already too late.

* * *

There are three neat holes triangulated across Steve's chest, and another just below his ribs, life steadily oozing out of them in thick pulsing streams. A noticeable trickle of crimson is already tracing slowly down his jaw from the corner of his mouth. His teeth are slick and red, mouth saturated with blood.  
The Captain is struggling to breathe, and a swiftly spreading puddle of dark red is growing beneath him on the floor. He's losing too much, much too fast. Steve has maybe a few minutes, if he's lucky - super-soldier healing or not. There's just too much damage and too little time to fix it in.

Sharon wasn't holding back. She aimed to kill.  
There's no coming back this time.

Bucky sits there, numb, clutching his friend's hand hard enough to bruise, his face whiter than Steve's. His jaw works, but no sound comes out.  
He can't lie to himself... but he tries to put on his bravest face for Steve. To let him believe he has time.  
...Steve who, for once in his life, looks terrified.

"Sit tight, kid." Bucky manages thickly, choking on every word. "Just… just stay with me. You're gonna be ok-" His throat is tightening and he can't find his voice anymore. He barely registers it when Natasha drop silently down beside him, one hand gingerly touching his shoulder. She can't bring herself to touch Steve.  
If she touches him, then it's real.  
It can't be real.

"No… " Steve mumbles, the words slurring together, red froth forming on his lips. " 'm... not…. 'm not … that … tha' stupid…" He's starting to shiver.  
Bucky clutches at his hand, tighter, eyes large and darting. Like he can will his friend to stay, to live, if he just hangs on hard enough. Steve keeps talking, the trickle of red spreading down his throat, trailing over his chest to join the rest..  
" Was.. was'n th'war…too...y'know..." He points out.  
There's a beat of pause.  
" 's cold…"

A ripple goes through Bucky's world, and he reels before he can collect himself.  
"Goddamn you, don't you _dare_ die on me Rogers!" His voice is cracking apart at the seams, and he has to swallow down the words he can't say.  
His eyes sting as he rips off his jacket and spreads it over Steve's shoulders, as gently he can with shaking hands. Steve shudders under the weight, and already crimson stains are blossoming over the fabric. Natasha's eyes are steady on him, steady and aching. He can all but hear her face shutting down, like a bank-vault slamming closed, hiding the miniature explosion that's detonating inside her head.

This can't be happening, Bucky tells himself, chest fluttering with shallow breath that he can't seem to catch.  
This just can't be happening. It can't.  
He's going to wake up screaming any moment. Another nightmare. Another bad night. Steve will be there with coffee, waiting for him.  
Any minute now, he's going to wake up…

He knows his voice is fracturing in a million places, but he clings tenaciously to Steve hand, the only point of light he can still find; forcing the words out, small and tight.  
"You can't leave me, kid…. You just can't…"

"...S'rry…" Steve's voice is fading, rasping harshly with every painful-sounding breath. It's growing wetter and weaker by the moment.  
Thick, hot scarlet is crawling into Bucky's clothes, burning a brand over his legs, staining in between the segments of his arm. It's clawing under his skin to leave a permanent mark. A sign of his failure.  
He's failed at the one mission that mattered.

Red has begun to insinuate itself into Steve's pale hair as well, dying it a bright, gorey shade.  
"Take… car'a'yerself…'k? " he slurs, head flopping jerkily sideways, to take in his best friend's face, brow furrowed in either concentration or pain, it's hard to say.  
"S'not… not yerfault…y'know…?" The words come out weak and brittle, rattling like dry leaves.

Bucky can't decide if he wants to punch him or just break down and sob his guts out all over him.  
_Leave it to Rogers to try to comfort everybody else while he bleeds out on the floor..._

"Shut up, punk." There's no bite to the words. Bucky just has to say something, anything so he won't just start wailing like an idiot. He owes it to Steve to hold himself together. He owes Steve a lot more than that. "Shut up and focus on healing your stupid ass up like you always do-"

Steve responds with a hollow, feeble cough that sends a crimson spray over his shirt, eyes drifting slowly closed. He tries to blink them open again, and for a horrible moment, Bucky thinks that's it. That he's gone.

Then the blue eyes flutter open again. They look dazed and hazy.  
He doesn't bother responding to Bucky's orders.  
"Nat... keep'm ...in line…" He mutters, eyes slowly glazing over as they flick toward her. "Needs… needs look'n... aft'r…."

Bucky can't blink back the tears that are burning his eyes anymore, not when Steve gives his hand a single weak squeeze. The water flows freely over his face; dripping, dilute, into an ocean of red. He can barely breathe. His chest is in a vice.

"End… th'...line..." Steve's hand spasms in what might be an attempt to squeeze his fingers, before one last wheezing, slow breath claws its way out of the Captain. He shudders hard, before falling utterly, horrifyingly still, head sinking slowly, limply to one side.

Something in Bucky fractures and gives way. He's falling into the black.


	123. Chapter 123

Bucky isn't sure if the screaming that echoes in his ears is coming from him or not until his throat closes up and the sound drops away with it. He feels himself collapse like a crumbling wall against Natasha's shoulder, clinging to her. He'll blow away if she lets go.  
The room fades into darkness and there's nothing but Steve and him and Natasha, floating in the black.

_She is safe._ He reminds himself dimly, over the roar, trying not to drown. _Nat is alive.  
__No matter how much I fucked up, Natasha's safe...  
_It's not enough to outweigh everything else, but it's enough to keep him from going completely into free-fall.  
Barely.

Natasha's arms around his shoulders are like iron, though he can feel her trembling too, steadying him as the ground rolls and roils beneath him. He nearly wretches as the reality of what's just happened hits him like iron to the gut, but then his breath hitches, and his sorrow rolls out of him in great gulping sobs instead. He can feel her tears against his shoulder, hot and wet, like the blood that slicks against his legs, and that only makes it all worse.

Steve Rogers is dead.


	124. Chapter 124

The reality takes a long time to soak in, even after Stark and his med team have arrived, standing in stunned silence at the threshold for over a minute before anyone dares to enter the room and examine the body.

Bucky says nothing as they surge around him, subdued and efficient. He lets himself be led aside, shaking his head when one of them tries to ask him a question. Natasha says something quiet and threatening and the paramedic retreats.  
They are not approached again.

He's still reeling even after the team has quietly collected the cooling body, covered it in a quickly bloodied sheet, and taken it away.  
Even after Sharon, still unconscious on the floor, has been examined, restrained, and taken into custody for treatment  
Even when Natasha is gently holding his face in the back of the car that's taking them home, begging him to look at her, to say something. Anything.

He feels himself drifting. He can't seem to find his way back to her.  
She's already lost one person today, she reminds him, _don't you leave me too… _He can hear the tears she's biting back.  
He's trying. He is… it's just...

Steve is dead.

His best friend, his brother, the light that centered his world from the time he can remember.

Gone.  
_Dead.  
_Steve Rogers is dead.

It's impossible. Couldn't possibly happen twice.  
But it has.  
It has and god… how can the world still be spinning?

Sure, Steve has 'died' before. They both have. They spent more than enough time mourning each other already…  
He remembers it was hell then too.

He had broken that first time, when his worst nightmares had finally come true. Fractured along every seam and simply crumbled into nothing.  
The ugly truth is that he'd welcomed the emptiness. It had been easier to let them suck everything that he was out of him and replace it with blessed frigid numbness, with blank orders; than to face the reality of a world without Steve Rogers in it.  
He'd given in because he couldn't imagine going on, couldn't imagine what he was fighting for, without Steve there to ground him.

...And now…  
_Now Steve is dead, because his best friend failed to protect him.  
__Again._

This time there will be no coming back. There will be no dramatic reunions, no last minute saves. No waking up from the ice.  
Whatever miracle he'd been hoping for, whatever he'd desperately imagined would change… it has failed to manifest. This time Steve faded away in horrible vivid detail, right in front of his eyes, and he can't deny the reality of it.

He can still feel the blood -darker and heavier than any of the rest- weighing him down with every step he takes. It's a stone around his neck, one that he will never be without again.

This time ...it's simply over... for well and all. And he just… can't.  
He can't get past it. He can't, and he won't.  
He can't function. Can't keep going.

He'll never wash the blood of this failure off of his hands, and there's no point to lying about that. Least of all to himself.

_Steve is dead._

He just doesn't have room for anything else right now.

* * *

_**A/N: Poor Bucky... the guy just can't seem to catch a break :(**_

_**And no, the story isn't over yet, boys and girls. More is on the way.**_

_**Also, to add more bad news to your day, there will definitely be a lag over the weekend. I'll be out of town, and not near a computer.**_


	125. Chapter 125

**_A/N: Grieving..._  
**

* * *

**Part 6 **

* * *

It's the silence that gets to her the most.

The distant eyes, the shivering… she expected them after the trauma they've just been through.  
But the utter stillness… That's what eats at her.  
Bucky has gone to ground inside his own head and he's not coming out anytime soon.

He's a silent, obedient dog right now, for all intents and purposes. He follows where he's led, says nothing - reacts to nothing. Just drifts after her, a ghost, when she takes his hand and leads.

She hesitates when they reach their… his… the floor where they sleep. She barely even visits her own anymore, but they've never reached any sort of official agreement that she lives here now… She wars with herself for a moment if she ought to let him have some privacy to come unwound, to mourn…wonders if he even realizes where he is... but she can't bring herself to leave him alone right now, not when he's so clearly shattered.  
She pushes the question away, ignores it, as helpful as a distraction feels right now.

She has to focus for the both of them... and the first thing they both need is a very long, very hot shower.

She pauses in the hallway just outside the bathroom, tracing a hand gently down the side of his face. He offers no reaction.

"Bucky?"  
Silence.  
"Honey… we need to get you cleaned up, ok?"  
Silence.  
"I'll help you."  
Blank, empty silence.

She sighs, turning away to subtly scrub at the tears that are sliding down her cheeks again. He barely seems aware that she's present at all, but she wants to spare him as much of her own grief as she can, just the same. Hard as this night has been for her, she can only imagine what it's done to the man she loves.

Bucky's life's mission has essentially boiled down to "protect Steve Rogers" since the two of them were just little boys running around New York city, no idea what was in store for them.  
And now Steve is gone... and Bucky doesn't begin to know what to do ...  
Natasha is all too aware of how viciously tonight has kicked his entire world right out from under him.

Bucky's had his moments over the past couple of years, since he really started to recover. He still broods, still dips into dark, frightening depressions sometimes… But he's always done his best to put himself back together for her. Always had that last reserve of will to pull back from the edge.

Now...

Bucky hasn't so much as blinked by the time she recollects herself, and it's painfully obvious he's only barely in there at all right now. She sniffles, muffled against her sleeve, leaving him there for the moment and switching on the hot water. She keeps one eye on the hallway as she does, but there's no need.  
He hasn't moved.

* * *

It almost feels like a violation, helping him undress when he's like this. When she's barely holding together herself. But they can't just crawl into bed saturated in their friend's blood.. so what choice is there?

When she gently tugs his shirt up over his head, he doesn't resist, but he does nothing to help the process along either. All of his clothes are sodden with slowly drying billows of red, leaving crusted dark smears over his skin as well.  
It would almost be fascinating if she weren't so repelled: a wash of vivid crimson where it's either still wet or still fresh, slowly fading into an ugly rust brown where the blood is thinner, scattered in morbid flecks across his face.  
She makes a mental note to burn their clothes later.

She hesitates for a long moment when she gets to the sling. Technically, he's not supposed to take it off for another few days, but the thing is filthy, and bile rises in her throat when she remembers what it's caked with.

"How's your arm?"  
Silence.  
"Is it ok if I take this off?"  
Silence.  
"I don't want to hurt you."  
Silence.

Natasha sighs, pulling herself together.

Bucky ran around with the drug withdrawal from hell for days by himself, and that was after falling out of a burning and exploding carrier and near drowning in the Potomac. He can handle it if they have to re-set his arm later.  
She doesn't let herself think of Steve's presence in any of that. If she does, she'll crumble and they'll both be adrift. That's just not a luxury she can afford right now.

She gently unhooks the sling, and eases his arm down to his side, sliding off the sodden splint and padding next.  
Bucky lets her, utterly complacent.

When he's completely undressed she leads him into the shower stall and leaves him there, then strips out of her own ruined clothes and joins him.

* * *

Bucky hasn't reacted to the water when she slides in behind him, except to turn his face up into the stream. Rivers of rust and crimson pour off of him and pool at his feet, swirling dirty scarlet around the drain.  
A tiny vortex of spilled blood, vanishing into the sewers...  
Natasha stares at it and wonders, vaguely, how many more times she'll see someone else's blood circling the drain in her life. Probably far too many.  
Blood on her hands had stopped meaning anything much at one point, no more significant than mud or sweat, but now … now she has to look away from the hypnotic spiral of murky red or she's going to throw up.

"Let's… let's just get you cleaned up." She manages, tearing her attention away from her more morbid thoughts, turning Bucky to face her. "Lean down so I can reach your hair, ok?"

He doesn't respond to her voice, but when she gently tugs down on his shoulders, he sinks into a crouch, letting her tip his head down to scrub shampoo over it.

Bucky remains the same blank slate when she washes his hair, the same when she stands him up to rinse it.  
She puts soap into his hand and waits for him to use it. He doesn't. Just stands there, the bar in his open palm. When it slides from his loose fingers and falls, he doesn't react.  
He moves where she puts him, obedient and blank. No autonomy, no agency. No action. Just… nothing.  
She does her best not to feel the stab of icy pain that sends through her, without success.

Eventually she manages to get the both of them scrubbed down, though it takes better than half an hour for the water to finally run clear. It's wearying, emotionally more than physically, and she feels completely drained by the time they're done.

Normally, a hot shower is a guilty pleasure she indulges in. It soothes and relaxes her.  
Now she just feels exhausted and nauseous and heartsick.

* * *

Bucky stands dripping on the rug beside her, inert. She wraps him in a towel as she switches the water off, gently steering him toward the bed. He sits when the back of his knees meet the edge of the mattress.

"Stay here." she tells him unnecessarily. He stares through her, empty eyed, which she takes as agreement.  
He hasn't moved when she returns with the impressive medical kit that she stashed in his closet months ago.

She sets to work with a fresh splint, trying to focus on what she's doing and avoid meeting his blank stare.  
He flinches once, minutely, as she wraps one of the straps around his wrist, but the motion is fleeting and gone the next instant. She hesitates for a moment, hoping to see him stir, blink… anything.  
He doesn't move again.

"Bucky."  
No reaction.  
She cups his cheek tipping his face toward her.  
"Bucky… James?"  
No protest at the name.  
"Honey, please… come back."  
No reaction.  
"_Please_ don't do this..." She hears her voice breaking and stops herself. He can't hear her right now anyway, why waste her breath?

She doesn't bother trying to hide it anymore as she pulls the blankets up over the two of them and sobs overtake her. Just buries her face in his chest and lets them out.

Bucky remains as still as the grave while she cries herself to sleep.


	126. Chapter 126

"Do we have any idea yet what happened with Carter?"

Sam is seated across from Maria Hill, who despite the last 24 hours' events, looks as put together as always. Her mouth is set into it's usual hard, unreadable line. She could very well be melting down in there, and he'd never be able to tell.

Sam is still struggling to piece together exactly what happened in this clusterfuck his life has suddenly become. Trying to sort out how things ever got to this point.  
He feels oddly calm. Almost zen. Probably because there are so many people who need him right now.

Sam has already had his breakdown.  
He's not letting himself have another one.

He sat up alone all of last night, after he got the news; drinking and swearing and thinking about Riley, about Steve, about how supremely bullshit unfair life is sometimes. He may or may not have hurled his lamp out of a window at one point…  
He also spent quite a bit more time than he will ever own up to screaming into a pillow and trying to breath over wave after wave of gut-wrenching sobs.  
Two good friends taken before their time. ... Or in Steve's case, outside of their time...  
Life is just shit sometimes…

He had let it all out, let himself come apart at the seams. And now that he has, it's time to take care of the others.

Helping people with trauma is his job, even if he's one of those traumatized people himself…  
_Especially_ if he is.  
He's got work to do.

"The same thing that happened with Barnes, as far as we know." Hill sighs, drumming her fingers on the edge of a file-folder. "Captured, tortured, wiped, used." She punctuates each word with the thump of her fingers on the table top. "At least going from the information that Stark…" She hesitates a moment, remembering that, technically speaking, Tony is her boss now. "-Mr. Stark provided. ...They seem to be getting better at it, which is very concerning."

Sam nods unhappily.  
"You mean because Barnes held back and she didn't?"

Steve had long made a point, especially in the early stages of his friend's recovery, to remind them how many chances Bucky had had to put a bullet right through the back of his head during Project Insight. How many times the Winter Soldier could have ended him before Steve even knew the danger was there, and how many times he hadn't taken the shot. The Soldier had materialized on the carrier walkway instead, just waiting. Letting himself be seen.  
And when he _had_ attacked, he'd shot to wound, not to kill.

Sharon, on the other hand, hadn't hesitated for a moment.

"Essentially, yes." Hill nods tersely. "And how _quickly _they were able to take control of Agent Carter is also alarming. I'm not sure if how familiar you are with her field work, but Sharon Carter is no wilting flower. She's a tough, capable agent with a long history at S.H.I.E.L.D. She's been captured before and she's withstood some of the worst torture methods there are without cracking. These people had her for less than three months and were able to not only break her but force her to assassinate a national icon and close friend against her will."

Sam flinches, but makes himself ignore it. He has to focus.  
"Have they managed to get through to her?" He asks, not sure he really wants to know the answer. Hill's lips press into a thinner line yet.  
"Does she… does she know what happened?"

"She came to a few hours after the event, and yes… she does." Maria's eyes flick to the window and back, distant for an instant. "She… did not take the news well."

"Do you think it would help if I talked to her?"

Hill smiles wanly, in a way that doesn't remotely reach her eyes.  
"While I appreciate your offer, Wilson, now is probably not a good time." There's a beat of silence. "She isn't really seeing guests at the moment... She's… on suicide watch."

"...Oh."

"I'll spare you the details, but she's being sedated for now, at least until the concussion is taken care of and she can stop screaming... After that… I'll try and send her your way."


	127. Chapter 127

Pepper's eyes are red, but nothing shows in her voice… even though she's been deflecting phone inquiries and making funeral arrangements all night.

As usual, she's one of the most incredibly resilient women on earth, and Tony finds himself -not for the first time- wishing he had half her strength.  
He's been quietly imploding since he stepped into that stupid restaurant, already knowing it was going to be too late... and saw Steve Rogers laid out on the floor, obviously long gone.  
Not even in uniform. Not Captain America...  
Just… Steve.  
The blood had been _everywhere_…

Between that and the faces of his friends, still shell-shocked beside the body… Well he certainly hadn't minded staying up with Pepper.  
He wouldn't have been sleeping anyway.

* * *

Pepper hangs up on a nosey, insensitive reporter with irritated finality, glaring at the phone as if she's daring it to ring again. Mercifully, it doesn't. At 4 o'clock in the morning, it's about damned time they got some peace.

She locks eyes with him over the desk in silence for a moment before letting out a long slow breath that seems to take all of her anger with it.  
"Everything's set… Private ceremony next Saturday." She visibly steadies herself, trying to shake off the malaise of having just planned the funeral of a good friend. "Just friends and-" She hesitates. Steve didn't really have any family left. "...friends."

He reaches over to take her hand and she stares at it for a long moment before squeezing his fingers and finding his eyes.  
Tony feels his throat working unsteadily for a moment, but he holds himself together as well as he can. For her.  
Always for her.

Pepper looks a little shell-shocked herself.  
"I can't believe … I just … I just arranged Captain America's funeral." It tumbles out of her, gaining speed until the words run together in an unbroken verbal torrent.

"I know." Tony doesn't take his eyes off of her. He knows Pepper. She's slow to crumble, but a sleepless night and putting her own reactions on hold are starting to catch up to her. She's caving in, slowly, so slowly. He can see it building in her face.

Her breath hitches for a moment, and one hand flies to her mouth to cover it. Red eyes shine with damp.  
She shakes her head, trying to cover her reaction.

"Hey, no, come here, honey, come here." He pulls her into his arms, leaning his cheek into her hair.

"I should-" She starts to pull away. "I should take care of-"

"Take a break. You've earned it about 200 times over."

She hesitates for a moment, then buries her face in his shoulder. She doesn't sob. That's not what Pepper does. Just breathes in and out, unsteady and damp.

And when Tony can't help the moisture that's staining his own cheeks, can't completely hide behind the usual 'I don't care' bullshit; her hands trace little circles on his back, slow and gentle.  
They comfort each other, as best they can.

He's not sure he could really call this slightly dysfunctional thing they do a 'relationship' in the typical sense. .. In that any sane woman would've left him years ago for all the shit he's pulled.

But what he will call it is 'love'.


	128. Chapter 128

_**A/N: I have a harder time writing Thor than some of the others, so apologies if this is a little flat. **_

* * *

Jane lets out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a gasp, pressing the phone closer to her ear. "What- when did this happen?"

Darcy raises an eyebrow at her and glances across the couch to Thor, who look just as confused as she is. The movie Darcy had loudly insisted that Thor HAD to see is muted and forgotten in the wake of whatever news is currently being relayed.

Thor has admittedly been distracted of late... so the call could really be anything. He's been in Midgard for the last few months, catching up on precious time with his love, and hasn't paid much attention to anything else.  
Something dire appears to have happened in the meantime…

"Oh my god… that's horrible…" Jane whispers, pressing her knuckles to her mouth as if she's suppressing the urge to be sick. "No, no, we'll be there. - … I'll tell him…" There's a pause and the two bystanders exchange another worried look. "No, don't worry about it, we'll be there as soon as we possibly can. … Right. Goodbye…"

The towering blonde on her couch stands slowly as she hangs up the phone, going to her in silence when she says nothing, still staring down at the phone held loosely in her fingers.

"Jane… what has happened?" He asks cautiously, gently laying a hand on her forearm.

"It's… your friend. Captain Ame-... uh... Rogers", she says, raising her eyes at last. "He's… he's dead." The hand drops away in shock as Thor's eyes go wide.

"The Captain… is dead?" He blinks as if he can't process this information.  
This is impossible. Certainly not. The Captain is a warrior, and a good one. Thor has heard of no battles of any appreciable magnitude for years. Steven Rogers has survived more cataclysms than most humans will even witness. What could possibly have felled Captain America, but the end of the world?

"The funeral's on Saturday, and Miss Potts wanted us to come..." Jane continues, hands fluttering nervously, aimlessly, trying to settle on something appropriate to do. "...I'm so sorry."

Thor sits heavily down against the side of the couch, ignoring the protesting creak it makes.  
First he had lost, regained, and then lost his brother again… Then his lady mother had perished. He had only just begun to lose the sting of their passing. He had dared to hope there would be no more death, no more mourning in his future for quite some time.  
He supposes he should have known better than that.

"Of course…" He answers when he realizes Jane is still waiting for him to speak.  
Darcy is pointedly studying her hands, not looking at either of them. She didn't really know Steve, but she knows of Captain America. She knows this is a big deal.  
"We should make ready to depart then. It is best to honor the fallen among friends…"


	129. Chapter 129

"Goddammit, Rogers."

Nick stares down at Hill's coded email for a few moments before slamming his laptop shut. He drums bandaged, calloused fingers over the lid in an irritable tattoo.  
_Stupid, stupid rookie mistake. You never let your guard down, you stupid, trusting son of a bitch…  
_He's glad, at least, to know it wasn't Barnes that pulled the trigger this time.  
"I tell you not to trust anybody, and this is where you end up…"

He can't quite make up his mind if he's more furious at Rogers for letting himself get caught with his pants down, or numb to the idea of a world without the Captain in it…  
He's not even sure if it matters anymore.  
Everything else that structured his world has been ripped apart by now: S.H.I.E.L.D., his friendship with Alexander Pierce, the idea that he was doing some damned good in the world... What's one more?

He stares down into a tumbler of the dark liquor he picked up on the cheap a few weeks back, stubbing out the remains of a cigarette on the cracked motel ashtray to his left.  
The stuff tastes like turpentine on his tongue, and burns all the way down; but it's steadying too.

He won't make it to Rogers' funeral. He can't.  
Dead men don't mourn the fallen. That's left to the living.  
And he's still got a lot of work left to do, if this shitstorm is any indication.

He refills his glass and raises it to the dim, yellowed light of his shitty little motel room. It isn't much, but it's something at least.

"You were an idiot, Rogers. But you were a friend, and you were _good_, the way most of us can't afford to be." He twists the glass in his fingers, letting it catch the feeble light. "Gonna miss your dumb ass, Steve."

He welcomes the burn as he throws that one back too. It sears some of the thick, swollen feeling out of his throat and lets him breathe again.

Dead men don't mourn… but that doesn't mean they don't feel.


	130. Chapter 130

_**A/N: I apologize to any Hulk fans if this chapter is a bit lackluster. I have a hard time writing Bruce, which is one reason he has such a minor role in most of my stories.**_

_**Sorry if anyone is disappointed.**_

* * *

It's a testament to Bruce's ability to control himself, that his reaction to two battered and filthy looking Avengers and a half-dazed Tony Stark stumbling in the door, is to stare in shock, rather than simply transform on the spot.  
Tony's wearing most of his Iron Man suit, but the others are still dressed elegantly for the dinner Steve mentioned to him earlier... though Natasha appears to have lost her shoes somewhere… And both Bucky and she are soaked with drying blood.  
He takes in Natasha's grimly determined face, Bucky's alarmingly blank eyes, and the Tony's distant, horrified expression in turn, trying to put the pieces together.

He opens his mouth to ask, but Natasha cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head, glancing pointedly at Bucky, who looks near comatose. She takes her silent companion by the hand and quickly leads him away before Bruce can puzzle out what to make of it.  
Tony stands staring after them, shaking his head.

"What _happened_?" Bruce turns back to him, confused and worried. "Those two looked like someone had just di-" He freezes realizing that this is _exactly_ what happened, and Tony looks away.  
"Oh my god…" He feels the Other Guy pushing to get out and squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe, slow and careful, until the danger passes.  
Tony still won't look at him when he's able to open his eyes again.  
"Who?"

"... Cap." The answer is quiet and reluctant. "HYDRA got to his girlfriend and… she… she um…." He mimes a gun with one hand, making a shooting motion before letting it fall limply against his hip.

Bruce's eyes are wide, turning to stare at the smudges of bloody footprints left behind on the floor. He can feel his pulse thundering, loud and jittery, in his head, and swallows hard.  
"So… Steve is…"

"... Yeah." Tony sounds like he's going to be sick.  
"I… I have to go meet with Pepper. She's already trying to handle this whole… clusterfuck. I gotta... Sorry to- to, y'know…" He waves his hand vaguely at the mess in his hallway, as if he just doesn't have the capacity for words anymore.

"I- no, you should go. I'll…I'll be fine. ... I'll make some tea." He fishes, lamely, for something to say. He's already got a containment plan for the Other Guy. No need for company.

Tony seems too distracted to care if that sounds idiotic or not. He turns stiffly and vanishes into an elevator, the shell-shocked tightness of his posture lingering, even as the doors shut behind him. Bruce stares between the elevator bank and the slowly receding footprints that trail after Natasha and Bucky's swift exit, transfixed to the spot.

He breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out.  
In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out.  
Over and over until the Other Guy quiets down.

Then he takes an elevator himself and punches the code for the subterranean basement level that Stark had installed a few years ago, at his request. It used to be a parking garage for some of Tony's absurdly large collection of classic cars, but now…

The containment cell is spacious enough to be reasonably comfortable. It ought to be, given he designed the thing himself. The cell is much like the one on S.H.I.E.L.D's first failed helicarrier attempt. A large clear cylinder set into the floor, specially reinforced concrete several meters thick on all sides of it. He's only tested it the once, but this floor is close to a mile underground, and it's already on lockdown, even if something should fail. He can't hurt anybody from down here.

He takes off his clothes and folds them neatly on a bench just outside of the cell, pulling on the hyper-elastic jumpsuit that Stark designed for him the last time his clothes gave out in the middle of a fight. It feels rubbery and uncomfortable against his skin, but he already knows that it works.

Glancing up and down the surface of the cell, Bruce tugs his glasses off, setting them on top of his clothes, and steps inside. He has to pause for a moment, suppressing the tremor that's creeping up his spine as the Other Guy pushes and writhes, trying to get to the surface.

He has maybe a few minutes of control left, he'd guess, as calls out the lock code.  
Sometimes it's very hard work to be zen...

_**Code acknowledged, Dr. Banner. Duration?**_

He shakes his head and shrugs.  
"Until I'm not green anymore."

_**Acknowledged. Please stand clear of the door area.**_

He takes a step back, and the door slides shut and vanishes into the wall.  
He wonders vaguely if any psychologist alive would consider this a healthy coping mechanism... letting the Other Guy tear the place down inside a sealed box - but then what would most psychologists know about it? Most people's inner demons don't manifest as 8 foot tall murderous green monsters, that can literally flatten a city in a matter of hours... so that might be comparing apples to oranges a little bit.

_**Door is secured and locked, Dr. Banner.**_

He let's out a long shuddering breath, easing up on the death-grip he's had on his self-control since the others returned, and finally lets himself go. It's something of a relief for once, sliding into the black as the Other Guy rips free with a deafening roar.  
_Relieved to turn into the Hulk… now that's one for the record books…_

* * *

He comes to a couple of hours later, dirty and disheveled, lying facedown on cracked concrete. A twisted bit of rebar is poking him in the hip, torn clear out of the floor. The Other Guy is quiet, apparently tired out, or just bored. With his other half, it's hard to say.

He staggers up to his feet. The door slides quietly open as he does.  
The room is blurred, and it takes a moment to remember that's because his glasses are still sitting where he left them, 6 feet away. There's more rebar torn up, he realizes, in several other spots around the cell. The Hulk was extra destructive this time.

Everything is sore, and his throat hurts, but mostly he just feels drained.  
Still, nobody got hurt, and as long as he's careful to keep himself in check, nobody's going to be.

As blind-rage grief rampages go, it could've been worse.

* * *

_**A/N: This is the last 'grief portrait' chapter for a while, as I've taken to calling the last few chapters. (Where we just focus on how everyone is dealing with things.) There will be one more, but it comes later.  
We'll get back into moving-the-story-forward things with the next update, which will probably be either later tonight or on Monday, since I'll be gone all weekend. Stay tuned.**_


	131. Chapter 131

_**A/N: One last update for the weekend. Don't say I never gave you guys anything :)**_

* * *

Bucky is gone when she wakes up.

For a moment Natasha panics, but only a moment. Natasha Romanoff is nothing if not resourceful. She snaps herself out of the pointless worrying, out of the blind reactionary fear, and makes herself think.  
_If I had just lost my best friend… where would I go?_

She blanches when she realizes the obvious answer.  
_Of course._

Where else could he be?

She'd love to be wrong, just this once…

The door to Steve's room is open when she reaches it.

* * *

"Bucky?"

He's kneeling in the center of the bed, the coverlet bunched beneath one hand, clutching numbly at the scratched red, white and blue of Captain America's shield. His shoulders are shaking and she hears him drag in a slow, ragged breath as he turns to face the door.  
As much as the utter devastation on his face hurts her, she can't help but be grateful that he's at least aware of her now …

Bucky's chest is heaving as if he's just run a marathon. He looks skittish and brittle as he wets dry, cracking lips, dropping his eyes back to the shield in his hands. His voice is hoarse and strained when it emerges.  
"He… he's not comin' back, is he?"

Heart in her throat, she shakes her head.  
"No…"

He crumples over himself when it's confirmed. The shaking has gotten worse.

"I fucked up…." He murmurs brokenly, face flush with the cold curve of the shield, knuckles white on the metal. "Oh god… I fucked up so bad…" A hard tremor arcs up his spine and undignified hiccuping sobs echo through the room.

"Oh, honey-" She crosses the room on impulse and sets a hand on his shoulder, feeling him flinch away the instant it makes contact.

"Don't!" He jerks back from her hand as if it's burned him.  
She can hear his heart hammering from here.  
"Please…" His face softens slightly as the panic subsides, staring at her from an awkward crouch. "Please ...don't touch me. I can't-"  
He trails off, eyes darting over her face a moment, taking in the hurt she can't quite conceal fast enough. Then he's on his feet, backing around her, edging for the door. The blanket from the bed trails in his clenched hand, apparently unnoticed.  
She takes a hesitant step toward him and he turns and is gone, vanishing down the hall like a startled cat.

She stares brokenheartedly after him until she's sure he isn't coming back, then sinks slowly to the carpet, biting down on her hand to muffle the frustrated scream she can't hold back anymore, hot tears burning in her eyes.

She can't lose them both.  
She's just can't handle that right now.  
She can't be strong enough for both of them when she's this hollow inside.


	132. Chapter 132

"Bucky?"

He flinches, wrapping the faded cotton blanket around himself like a cloak as Sam slowly, cautiously approaches him from the other end of the hallway. He's getting tired of hearing his name this way. A question laced with more questions. So careful, like collaring a vicious dog...  
There is concern plainly written on Wilson' face.  
He hates it.  
After his massive failure, the last thing he deserves is kindness.  
"Hey man, you doing ok?"

Bucky just stares at him, clutching at the fabric if it will protect him from- ...from what? From Sam?  
The sympathetic eyes are still on him, and it makes him sick. He has to say something.  
"Gone…" He mumbles, shaking his head.

Sam's expression immediately softens into something sad and understanding.  
"Yeah…" He pauses, studying Bucky's pale face. "I heard…" A slow deep breath. "You probably still need some time... I get it." A hand hovers for a moment over the trembling blanket-clad shoulder, but thinks better of it before making contact. "It _will_ get easier to take with time, as hard as that is to believe…"

Bucky shivers and says nothing.  
Sam nods thoughtfully, shifting back so he's blocking Bucky's exit as minimally as possible.

"Take all the space you need, Bucky. Come see me when you're ready, ok? Anytime you want to talk."

He accepts the tall brunette's noncommittal noise and swift escape as acknowledgement.

Everyone heals in their own time, in their own way. Some people by fixing others, some people by hiding, and some people by fighting… everybody gets there somehow.

Bucky at his core, however broken he is now, is a survivor. Sam knows he'll find his way.


	133. Chapter 133

_**A/N: So I originally intended this to go up on Monday, but it just didn't feel quite ready Monday afternoon, and I was too tired to effectively proof things after I made a bunch of revisions Monday night. Hopefully it's worth the wait :)**_

* * *

"He-ey, Nat." Clint slurs when she wanders distractedly through the door, her scattered thoughts suddenly hauled back to reality. He's hunched over a bar-stool, helping himself to some of Stark Tower's finest, halfway to bombed off his ass, from the look of him.

"Clint, what the hell?" She marches over to the bar and snatches the bottle out of his hands, holding it out of his reach as he flails briefly for it. She has absolutely _no_ patience left for whatever bullshit Clint is pulling right now. Not after the morning from hell she's just had.  
"Since when do you drink at two in the afternoon?!"

"Since last night -"  
Something jarrs under her sternum and knocks the breath out of her like a physical punch. It feels like a low blow, especially coming from him.  
"-'cause everything fuckin' sucks right now."  
He fixes her with an unsteady, red-rimmed stare, extending his hand for the bottle. Voice caught on the broken glass in her throat, she slowly returns it to him.

Clint is raising the liquor to his lips, head thrown back, ready to take another long pull when he notices that she's gone quiet. Her arms are hugged around herself like the room is suddenly bitterly cold and she's biting her lip hard enough to bleed. He hesitates, watching her from the corner of his eye, then sighs. The bottle clinks quietly to rest on the counter, untouched.  
"You ok?"

"Fine." It comes out harsher than she intends, and Natasha snags herself a bottle of vodka without meeting his eyes, dropping down hard onto the stool to his right. "Everything's fucking wonderful."

"Yeah… great time to be alive." He mutters acerbically, studying her face.  
Natasha can't help flinching, but she covers it with a deep swig from the bottle as best she can. She knows he's noticed when Clint sighs again, pushing his booze away from him and setting one hand on hers.  
"Talk to me, Tasha… before I'm too blitzed to hear you."

She raises her eyes to his face for a moment, prepared to tell him just _exactly_ where he can stick his pity - but the bleary eyes that look back are sincere and softer than Clint's expression ever normally gets. They see through her, now that he's actually looking, just like they always do. She silently takes in the unspoken empathy, the promised understanding…  
It almost hurts more than the apathy.

She abruptly cracks, hurling the vodka bottle at the wall over his shoulder- where it explodes with an impressive crash, a spray of glass and alcohol. Her chest heaves but she can't seem to catch her breath, can't calm herself down. Fresh sobs slither out from under her tight control and her solid exterior shatters too.

"I can't _do_ this anymore." She hisses out, appreciating that Clint doesn't make any further move to touch her. Doesn't interrupt. Doesn't make another move for his liquor; perhaps afraid she'll lob it too. He just listens in silence.

"I can't- " Her thoughts are wild and skittish, darting away when she tries to pin them down. "I'm compromised, Clint… Jeesus...I can't lose them both…"  
To let it out, to finally say the words that have been buzzing around her skull all night… she can't decide if it's a welcome relief or simply fresh pain.  
"First Steve was- …was-"  
She chokes on that, and pushes around the empty space the words leave before she can lose her momentum, "-and that was bad enough - I can't _unsee_ that- ... but Bucky's saw it too, and his face was almost _worse_ and… and...I was trying to deal with it… with losing one, and being there for- but then... then Bucky won't- I can't… he won't even talk to me."

She hiccups around another sob, and pushes it down. She's furious at herself to cracking like this, even if only in front of Clint, who's seen her at her worst plenty of times before.  
Natasha never breaks. Never.  
And here she is acting like she's a stupid little girl and no one's ever died before. They've lost plenty of friends between them over the years. People die all the time. It's not new.  
That doesn't stop it hurting every time though… especially when she'd let herself trust, let this stupidly honest, well-meaning man into her life… let herself become attached. Too late, she'd remembered the danger in attachments…

Clint is waiting for her to pick up her scattered thoughts and finish speaking. He knows her well enough to know she's not done yet.

Natasha has lost the thread of her thoughts, and has to force herself to retrieve it so she can make at least a little sense when she continues. " It's like they're both just...gone-" she snaps her fingers, "-just like that."  
A shiver jarrs up her spine, and she tries, unsuccessfully to reign herself in before it gets worse. She settles for running her hands up and down her arms, trying to cover the movement. Clint doesn't appear to buy it, drunk or not, but he doesn't comment.

"I'm _trying_ to support him…" She moans, face falling into her hands. "I'm doing everything I can think of... I KNOW what this is doing to him- I am… just… I can't… I can't keep this up" Her shoulders hunch helplessly as she sags against the bar. She doesn't bother trying to suck it up and put on the tough front again.  
_Fuck it_.  
She's too weary to keep up the pretense anymore. She's worn through, and it's starting to show. She's fraying around the edges and she doesn't know how to stop herself from unraveling.

"... I don't have enough left to stand on in the first place… let alone to go around…" She finishes softly, blowing a long slow breath out, willing herself to breathe - and makes herself unclench her hands, which have been all but crushing themselves for the last few minutes. Tiny red crescents are left behind on her palms where the nails have nearly broken her skin.

Clint scrubs his fingertips up and down the bridge of his nose for a moment, considering what he's just heard, before leaning closer. His breath smells like a still, but she doesn't move away. How he knows just when she's run out of steam, she isn't sure. Somehow he always does.  
"Nat… You don't hafta do this to yourself." He can't seem to quite decide how far to lean, and ends up almost doubled over. He blinks up into her face, unsteady but sincere. "You an' Steve … y'were close… You just lost one'a your best friends too." he slurs, "You gotta deal with that."  
Clint shakes his head, as if he's stunned himself with the sheer weight of the mess they're in. She can't believe it either.  
All of the last century's history fails to break these two, and here one is dead and the other half-feral inside of 48 hours...  
"Y'can't just hold Barnes up, much as he needs it." Clint continues.

Natasha starts to protest, but he holds up a hand to stop her.

"Y'love 'im, I know…" Clint reels a bit on his stool, and she's prepared to catch him when he topples off... but he manages to right himself at the last moment and keep right on talking.  
"Tasha, you ain't done dealing with this yerself, and he ain't gonna be any help for a while... Y' gotta take care of yourself." He admonishes, still weaving slightly. "...Y'never remember that part." He leans back more or less upright again, working to force his whiskey-logged brain to think coherently, waving a hand vaguely in her direction. "Take a break. Get some space."

"I can't just _ignore _him." She shakes her head, almost wishing she still had the vodka in her hands. She could use a shot or two to steady her right now. Honestly, if she wasn't so rattled, she wouldn't have left Bucky to his own devices _now_ either...  
"He's…He's..." She can't quite find the words for what he is now.  
_Scared, hurting, nerves pulled taut as a bowstring… He's..._

"-Fucked up. Yeah, I know." Clint interrupts her thoughts, standing unsteadily to retrieve a couple of glasses and a few more bottles from behind the bar. "I saw 'im runnin' away from Sam with his tail between his legs earlier." She accepts the glass that he hands her, gratefully. "Kid just lost 'is best friend, an' he needs some space, looks like. ...Let 'im have it, and take some Tasha-time fer once… 'k?"

He sits with a clumsy thump, and opens one of the bottles at random, pouring out a shot for each of them. He raises his in a sloppy attempt at a salut, sloshing some down his arm; and Natasha raises hers to match, managing not to wear any of it.

"To the Cap." Clint announces loudly to the empty room. "Was a fuckin' boy scout the end, bless 'is stupid little heart."

"Вечная Память…" Natasha adds. "Steve was a good... good friend. You could trust him..." The liquor tastes bitter in her mouth, but she gulps it down anyway, and pours herself another.

Clint tosses his free arm around her shoulder before they raise their glasses again.

"To fuckin' Captain America."

"To the best of us."

Oddly… it makes her feel better.

* * *

Clint is completely blasted before she even begins to feel the alcohol. She's not surprised. He had one hell of a head-start on her, and they've been toasting and drinking for the last couple of hours. … And she's Russian - so he never stood a chance to begin with.

"I should go see how he's doing…" She murmurs, nudging the archer, who's all but passed out on the bar.

He grunts and stirs, blinking one eye open.

"Don' forget… tak' care'a yerself…"

"I know, bird brain." She manages a faint smile, pushing the remaining booze out of his reach. Clint's hand flops up onto the bar seeking it, and his fingers grope aimlessly after the bottle for a few moments before he gives up and just lets his arm fall limply to his side, groggy and defeated. He's had more than enough.

"You too."

* * *

Вечная Память = (literally: "eternal memory") in context: "Let him be remembered forever"

_**A/N: Google tells me this is a traditional Russian toast to the departed. If any native speakers want to correct me, please do. I'll include your correction.**_


	134. Chapter 134

Bucky's been huddled beside his bed, wrapped in Steve's blanket, for the past 6 hours when Natasha appears mutely in the doorway with a plastic water bottle and a steaming bowl of oatmeal. Her eyes are faintly red-rimmed, but her expression is calm and closed.  
She doesn't speak, just holds it out to him and waits.

"I don't-" He hesitates when she flinches, minutely, almost invisibly, then accepts the water bottle as it's pressed into his hand. Drinks because she seems incredibly invested that he should do so.

He can't make himself touch the oatmeal though.  
He has no appetite to begin with, but the meal reminds him too much of 6 am runs, and that reminds him of Steve. His stomach turns over and he has to push the bowl away before the familiar smell gags him.

She takes it back without comment, pausing as one hand begins to travel, stops before it can trace over his wrist, and collects the now empty bottle instead.

When he says nothing, she turns on her heel and leaves.  
He stays where he is as night falls.

Natasha doesn't return to sleep.


	135. Chapter 135

_**A/N: Bonus chapter, because I made ya'll wait :D**_

* * *

"Hey, Buckster…"

Bucky groans inwardly. It seems the entire tower is going to seek him out at some point, when all he wants to do is sink through the floor and disappear. Why can't they just _leave him alone_?

Tony, of all people, stands in the doorway of his room, watching him cautiously. Waiting.  
Tony, of all people, is silently asking permission, instead of barging in.  
He'd almost appreciate it if he had the energy to give a shit.  
At this point, Bucky doesn't much care what Stark does. He doesn't much care about a lot of things.

He's been huddled in a ball of misery beside his bed for three full days now, buried under the blanket he pilfered from Steve's bed, ever since Natasha happened on him mourning in Steve's room… She's returned with food and water a few times since, in silence each time.  
The look on her face when he failed to eat the soup she brought last-

He doesn't let himself finish that thought.

He hasn't eaten in three days, because he can't bring himself to. His stomach won't allow it.  
Drinks only when she brings him water and pushes it into his hand. Only because he can't stand to see the pain clearly written on her face while she waits, expectantly. When he hesitates.  
He drinks, though he isn't thirsty.  
He isn't anything.

"Sam already talked to me." He mutters, barely glancing up. "So if you're here to tell me 'bout how it'll get easier or whatever, you can fuck off."

"No… I'm not." Stark is still standing in the doorway. "I think we both know I'm probably the least helpful guy on the planet with the touchy emotional stuff…" He shuffles his foot and sighs uncertainly.

Bucky grunts acknowledgement. No argument there.  
"What do you want, Stark?"

"I hear you need a tune-up on the arm…" The underlying offer is plain enough. "No talking involved," he adds "Just a little clean-up and a quick oil-change."

"You always talk." Bucky grumbles shortly, burrowing deeper into the blanket. It still smells vaguely like Steve, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend his friend is sitting next to him, instead of in a morgue somewhere across the city.  
"Just leave me alone."

"You need to get out of here, Robocop. ...You're scaring Romanoff. -Please."

He raises his head, finding Stark, for once, open and waiting. No snarky asshole comebacks. No ceaseless yapping. Just… waiting.

He hesitates. He doesn't want to do anything but sit here and rot, wallowing in grief and misery. He doesn't want to exist at all, if he's being totally honest. … But the plates of his arm are beginning to stick, and he feels sick every time he remembers that it's Steve's blood trapped between them.

… And Natasha's eyes are growing more and more hollow with every day he sits here, refusing to move. Refusing to live. He owes her more than this.

"Fine. ...Just shut up, and I'll come."

* * *

Tony, to his credit, keeps his word… or lack thereof. He's silent all the way to the elevator, silent on the ride to his floor, silent as he punches in the security code for the lab, and silent all the way back to his work table. The soft scuff of his trendy tennis-shoes over the polished tile floor is the only sound, and it has an almost ghostly quality in the unusual quiet.

Bucky lags behind, dawdling because he can't be bothered to hurry. The blanket trails across the ground a little at his feet, and he tugs it up around his shoulders, protectively.  
He knows it's ridiculous, carrying this thing around like a literal security blanket but… he can barely cope as it is. He's not about to cast aside one of the only things that has provided some measure of comfort, just because it looks foolish. Frankly, he doesn't give two shits what he looks like right now.

Tony rolls over a padded stool for himself and indicates the plush office chair that has more or less become the official 'bionic arm maintenance' spot. Nobody sits in it but Bucky, and only when he needs work done on the arm. Routine helps to ground him, and god does he ever need some grounding right now…

"If you want to keep the blanket on, that's fine." Tony finally speaks, absorbed in prepping his tools. "Just keep it clear of the work area, alright? I'd hate to singe that sucker with a soldering iron or something."

Bucky clutches Steve's comforter tightly around himself as he sits, carefully poking out the metal arm for inspection. The mechanisms whine in protest, and the components stick and grind against themselves before giving way and straightening properly. Looking at the arm in the bright white light of Tony's lab... it really is a mess. Thick crumbling smears of rusty brown line every seam, peaking out from where the rest of the metal has been scrubbed clean. He looks away.

He's grateful, not for the first time, that his right, flesh arm is finally out of that damned sling, even if it's still splinted and weak.  
...At least he's not going around one-armed anymore.

He glances back and watches, more to keep out of his own head than anything else, as Stark fiddles with the mechanisms of his arm - watches the sections ease apart with the faint hiss of pistons letting go. As the individual plates separate, he slams his eyes away again.  
Smears of rust brown coat the interior of his hand and arm, up to the elbow. There are drips and smaller stains inside the components of his bicep. He can feel his stomach turning, and buries his face in the fabric, trying to drown it out in the fading smell of Steve's shampoo that still lingers there.

Tony clicks his tongue against his teeth.  
"You'd think they'd make this thing a little more water-tight…"  
He pauses, catching Bucky's face out of the corner of his eye. Kid looks like he's going to throw up...  
He flicks up his goggles to study the man in the chair.  
"You ok?"

Bucky almost laughs at that; it's such a ridiculous question.

"No."  
It's concise and it's true... But this has to be done sooner or later, and he's already here. Might as well get it over with.  
He takes a deep breath.  
"But go ahead."

"You sure…?"

Bucky keeps his face turned away.  
"Just fuckin' do it, would ya?"

"Sure…" The goggles flip back down.

He can hear the patient scrape-scrape of tiny dental tools a moment later, clearing bits of dried blood out of circuitry. The soft whisk of a wire-brush scrubbing off the inside of a plate. His stomach is still tied in knots, and he can feel the familiar hot sting of salt-water in his eyes, though he swallows most of it back. There are razor blades in his throat, but he pushes around them. The arm tugs slightly, as Tony twists it to get a better angle.

He clenches his jaw and waits it out.

* * *

"Thank you."  
Bucky's voice is so soft, muffled in Cap's old comforter, that Tony almost doesn't hear it.  
He pauses, stilling the tiny pick he's been using. Harsh uneven breathing is the only other sound.

"You're welcome, Tin Man." He's a little surprised Bucky's talking at all.  
Barnes is a prickly son of a bitch most of the time and especially with present circumstances... But even when his entire world is coming down around his head, the guy can be surprisingly likeable...

"Not just… for this." Bucky's face finally emerges from the folds and red-rimmed blue eyes are steady on him. "For the arm… I-" He falters, shaking his head. "Forget it... Too fucked up to make much sense right now."

"No sweat." Tony pats the metal shoulder, even if he's pretty sure Bucky can't feel much there... especially with the arm deactivated and half disassembled. "You've had a tough couple weeks, Buckaroo…"  
They all have.  
"You talk when you wanna talk. Like I said, quick clean-up and an oil-change, then you're free to go."

There's a long beat of silence - long enough that he's just starting back in on a persistent little rust-colored drip that traces the length of Bucky's upper arm again, before-

"You're a good guy, Stark."  
Bucky says it quietly, before averting his eyes again.  
"I know I call you all kinda names… but you are. … Figured you should know."

Tony freezes in place for a few moments, at a loss. The pick nearly falls from his fingers before he remembers himself and steadies it. Snark he can handle. Sulky silences are no problem. But genuine warmth, or gratitude… that has always thrown him for a loop.

"I… uh…. thanks..." He goes for simplicity. Safest course. "You're a pretty good one yourself, Barnes."

"No I'm not." Bucky murmurs, something dark and bleeding in his tone. "...But thanks."  
_Good guys don't get their best friends killed..._

* * *

**_So you are all warned, updates may get erratic again in the next month or two, as I'll be preparing for and making a BIG move across the country that happens in early August. I'll do my best to keep them steady, but moving has to be my priority and there's a lot to do. _**

**_More story goodness will be up tomorrow._**


	136. Chapter 136

"How's the One-Armed Bandit doin'?" Clint is downing coffee like water now, and nursing one hell of a hangover. She sits down across the couch from him and pours herself a mug as well, staring down into the dark, fragrant depths possibly longer than necessary.

"Surviving." She takes a long quiet sip. Stares.

"And how's the Black Widow?"

"Same…"  
She scruffs one hand across her eyes and sets down the mug.  
"He drank the water I gave him, but when I tried to get him to eat, he looked like he'd heave."

Clint nods in silence, then sets his mug down deliberately and scoots over until their arms are pressed together and they're bumping knees. Natasha leans her head onto his shoulder and sighs, deflating like a torn balloon.

"I'm scared for him, and I'm scared for all of us, and I'm pissed as hell, and none of that brings Steve back and-"

"Breathe, Nat. You're gonna pass out."

She leans away long enough to give him a half-hearted punch in the arm. He makes a show of wincing and rubbing the spot, mostly for her benefit. If she'd wanted it to hurt, it would've; but she appreciates the effort.

"You're an ass, Barton."

"Thought that's why you kept me around - make you look good."

"I knew there was a reason."

They sit in silence for a while until he drapes an arm around her shoulder and gives her a gentle shake.  
"We're all gonna make it, Nat.… You, me, Barnes… all of us. It's gonna hurt like a bitch, but we're a bunch'a cockroaches. Nothin' knocks us down forever. We get back up and we bring the pain."

"You didn't see his face this morning…"

"We're gonna make it." Clint repeats firmly, scruffing her hair until she slaps his hand away. "An' we're gonna find the sons of bitches that caused this whole mess and we're gonna bring. them. down."

"I'm looking forward to it." Her voice is soft, and he can still hear tears behind it, but there is cold deadly vengeance there as well. The Widow is down, but she is certainly not out.


	137. Chapter 137

It feels like the aftermath of 'the big break' all over again.  
He's sitting in Sam's office, just taking up space, not really saying a word.  
He feels a little bad about it, shutting Sam out. -What little he can still feel around the numb ache in his chest.  
Sam is a friend. A good one at that...  
...But there's just nothing to say.

The sooner Sam accepts that. The sooner _everyone_ accepts that, the better off they'll all be.

* * *

"How are you holding up?"  
There's no notebook out today, no real analysis. Just questions. Careful, gentle questions.

"How do you think?"  
It comes out more acidic than he intends. He clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head.  
"Bad." He amends after a few moments.

Sam nods in the heavily loaded silence of the room.  
"I … kinda figured that's what you'd say."  
He can't quite cover up the weighted sigh that slips out of him.  
"Look, Barnes, I'm not going to lie to you. This whole ...thing... has hit everyone hard. You most of all. I won't pretend it's going to just… go away, if you wait long enough. It won't.. But it gets better with time. It honestly does...  
It's a long hard road when you lose somebody you love-"

"-Please… can we just...not." Bucky interrupts, voice thick. His hands are shaking. He buries them in his lap.  
"Look, I get what you're sayin', Sam. I do. An' I'm sorry if I'm being a dick, but I really just don't wanna hear it right now." He hesitates for a breath before plunging ahead."I didn't deserve to be alive in the first place, an' now look what happened…"

"Bucky, what happened is not your-"

"_Spare me the therapy bullshit_!" He's on his feet abruptly, surprising himself, and knocking his chair over in the process. He ignores it.  
He's got too many emotions tangled up inside of him right now. He feels claustrophobic and suffocated and he's got to _move_, to do _something_.  
"It was my fault. Of course it was my fault." He paces halfway to the door and turns around. He can't quite decide what to do, where to go.  
"I didn't save him. I pushed him to go out with the person that _murdered_ him!" He's shrill, just this side of screaming. "You wanna tell me how that's _not_ my fault?!"

"You had no way of knowing this would happen." Sam's voice is deceptively steady, still sitting sedately in his chair...but there's a thread of pain running through it. An air of tension in the way he holds himself.

Bucky's struck a nerve. He keeps forgetting that he wasn't the only one who loved Steve like family... that the rest of the team is still mourning too…  
He stands there, stranded when his anger abruptly deserts him, uncertain what to do next.

"Yeah, this fucking _sucks_." Sam's eyes are pinning him down. "But I don't - I _won't_- believe that you'd have ever knowingly hurt Cap." he continues. "Best we know, they used Sharon Carter _because_ Steve was close to her. Because nobody'd question her after she took on Rumlow during Project Insight. She was trustworthy and they corrupted that.  
They found somebody that had _earned_ Steve's trust and they abused it. They used her just like they used you, man."  
Sam pauses, taking a deep breath before he continues.  
"...She had a connection to Steve and they stole that and used it to hurt him. You had no way to know what was happening, Bucky. HYDRA are dirty, cheating assholes." His chin comes up challengingly. "This is _not_ your fault."

Bucky shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. Sam just doesn't get it.

"No, HYDRA being scum... that's not my fault." He says slowly. "I get that part. But HYDRA killing my best friend, on my watch? ...That one's on me."  
Sam regards him in silence, something horribly pitying in his eyes. Bucky looks away.  
"We done here?"

When Sam doesn't answer, he turns without another word and pushes out through the twin glass doors, letting them slam a little harder than necessary behind him. He doesn't look back.

Sam just sighs and lets him go.


	138. Chapter 138

Natasha finally screws up the courage to go and get the last of her things from Bucky's room while he's at his therapy appointment with Sam. He's had several set up already, but he's skipped most of them until now.  
She's got most of her clothes in that room, and a lot of the few personal items she really cares about, and she just can't put this off any longer.  
She just needs to go in, quickly gather her things, and she'll be out again.  
Then she'll give him space - she will. She'll let him be until he's ready to talk again…

She makes it in the door, manages to gather up a couple of shirts, and she's starting to feel like she can really do this... before she makes the mistake of glancing at one of the photos on the windowsill.  
Two grinning idiots in black and white, one blonde haired, one dark. A white star gleams on the uniform that's dipping just out of frame.

The reality crashes back over her like a freight train. Her knees buckle and she has to sit down before she falls down. Manages to seat herself on the end of the bed before a fresh wave of sobs drags her under; threatens to drown her until she has to let them out.

It's several minutes before she can remember how to breathe, but it isn't until she hears footsteps in the hall that she realizes how long she's been sitting here, coming undone... and that it's much too late to make a graceful exit now...


	139. Chapter 139

He stops off in his room, just for a moment, intending only to throw on a ratty jacket and hat for camouflage, before wandering New York until his legs give out. He needs to clear his head…

Instead, he finds Natasha sitting on the end of the bed, hands clenched tightly against the fabric of her jeans. A couple of discarded shirts and a sweater lay scattered over the blanket beside her. Her eyes are red, shoulders hunched. It's clear she's been crying; though she does her best to hide it when she notices him, scruffing a hand discreetly across her face.

"Hey…" She offers quietly. It's incredible how much pain she manages to fit into one single syllable. "I… was just coming to get some things and… I know you need to be alone... I'll go." She sniffles noisily, swiping her hand across her face as she stands up to slip past him.

His heart squeezes in his chest, and he suddenly hates himself more than ever. How has he been this fucking blind? And to Natasha, of all people...  
It's like stepping out of the ice, unsteady and aching. The haze has finally fallen away. Bucky's been so wrapped up in his own grief, he's barely noticed hers…

Before he realizes what he's doing, he's stopped her and he's pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, murmuring apologies over and over. She doesn't resist, just lets herself be pulled, nestling into his chest and swiftly giving up the pretense that everything is ok. She starts to shake with muffled sobs, plastered against his neck.  
He's shaking too.

"I'm sorry." He whispers into her hair, over and over, like a prayer. His fingers ghost over her shoulders, unwilling to settle anywhere. His voice cracks and breaks. "I'm so sorry. I'm a selfish jackass.. I'm sorry."

Natasha laces her arms tighter around his neck, clinging to him like she's holding on for dear life.  
"Please stay with me..." She murmurs, sounding like she might crumble if he doesn't. "Please… I can't- I can't do this without you anymore..."

He shakes his head, clinging tightly to her, trying to pull her closer, though she's already pressed flush against him. Clutches puckers into her clothes. Tries to show her what he can never explain with words.  
His voice is thin and rough when he finally finds it.  
"I'm not goin' anywhere. Stayin' right here - 'long as you want me…"

They stand that way, collapsing on each other in the dimly lit room, for... he doesn't know how long... grieving together, leaning into one another for the strength neither of them has left to give.

* * *

Natasha stays that night.

The two of them lie awake until dawn, though both agree they could use the sleep. They've stirred up too much memory, too much pain, and there's just no way to close their eyes without one of them waking up screaming. One attempt is all it takes to prevent them trying again.

Sometimes they talk, trying to pass the time, fill the silence. Little fragments of thoughts, fresh jaggs of tears...  
Sometimes they just stare into the darkness and hold onto each other until the world slows down and the vertigo recedes.

"I never thought…" Natasha's voice rises finally, then trails off, husky with crying. She sniffles softly, pressing her fingertips into the metal arm that's looped tightly around her, as if to reassure herself that it's still there.

"I never thought we could lose Rogers." It's barely a whisper. He makes a pained noise of agreement as she goes on. "It seemed so impossible, y'know…? It just… it couldn't happen..." _ I thought it was safe to let him in..._ goes unspoken.

He tries to reply, but nothing comes out for a few moments.  
"I know…" Bucky manages at last. His chest aches, constricted with memories.  
"I just got so used to 'im just pullin' through on grit alone when were kids… I guess… I guess I thought 'now he's a big bastard, got all these super-hero buddies, he'll be ok'. …"  
He sucks in a ragged breath, letting his head fall back. Natasha is silent beside him.  
"Kid survived every disease known to man, mowed down Nazis like they were daisies, an' it's a fuckin' sucker-punch outta left-field that gets him…"  
He can't keep the heavy bitterness out of his voice as it cracks. A painful wail rises in his throat, but he manages to talk around it.  
"I was supposed to protect him..." Natasha's hand grazes his cheek, brushing away the moisture he's long since stopped noticing. "...I was supposed to keep that stupid little bastard alive, and I fucked it up." His voice stumbles and cuts off with a noisy sob, crumbling.

Natasha pulls him closer, cradling his head against her shoulder and murmurs into his hair.  
"You did your best старик… There was nothing else you could do."

"I should've-"

She presses her finger over his lips to silence him before he can wind up again.  
"I was _there_, Bucky…" she reminds him, her tone serrated and sharp. "I was there too…  
You think I don't wonder what million and one things _I_ could've done differently? If maybe I'd put the pieces together sooner, run just a little bit faster, gotten her out of commission before she put holes in someone?"  
Her voice shakes.  
"I could've insisted we went in armed. I could've thought for _onegoddamnsecond_ that HYDRA was still out there and still gunning for us... I could've- God... Bucky, I was _thirty seconds_ too late to save one of my closest friends…" She closes her eyes against burning tears, working to control herself. "Thirty. seconds. ...And _I'm the one that set them up in the first place_."

"You didn't know-"

"Neither one of us _knew_…" She snaps, eyes a little wild as they flick open again. Her shoulders heave against his side. "Does it make _you _feel any better about it?"

"... No." He sighs miserably, dropping his head back against the mattress, arm draped loose around her waist. "Think it ever will?"

"No." She inhales a little too sharply, and he feels damp against his shirt. "But we can still try." She pauses for a long moment, reigning herself in. "It's what he'd be telling us to do, you know that."

"He would." Buck agrees, carding a hand gently through her hair. "Selfless little shit." He meant the words to sound teasing, but they just come out weary. "... God I miss 'im."

"I know…" She sighs, burying her face in his shoulder. "Me too."

* * *

старик = old man


	140. Chapter 140

Tony is waiting just outside the elevator when the two of them stumble out of bed and into the hallway, still feeling worn out and thoroughly spent.  
If either of them notice the ghost of a pleased smirk dancing on the edges of his lips when he finds them finally together, neither of them comment.

"It's too damned early for whatever you want." Natasha grumbles shortly, leaning against the door-frame. She's a vision of 'not a morning person' today, and her glare promises swift and terrible retribution if he doesn't go the hell away or hand her a cup of coffee within the next five minutes.

"I made liquid sustenance downstairs." Stark assures her, as if in answer to the unspoken threat. "You guys should come have some. You should _really_ come have some."

"Not in the mood for this today, Stark." Bucky shuffles irritably out of the bathroom, toothbrush dangling out of his mouth. It's impressive that he can still look mildly menacing, even with a mouth full of toothpaste foam.  
He just wants to spend the day with Natasha. They've spent too much time dancing around each other as it is, and he's got some making-it-up-to-her to do…  
"Told you already, I talked to Sam-"

"Yeah, well this time it's not my call, Buckster. Apparently Cap's got an estate, and you're involved." Tony shrugs in badly feigned nonchalance. "Who knew, right?"

He chooses not to comment on the transparency of Tony's cheerfulness. Pretending not to give a shit is just how Tony deals with everything.

"An estate-?" Bucky's eyebrow climbs firmly northward. It's _way_ too damned early for this. "How the hell did Steve have 'an estate'? We were flat broke."  
As far as he's aware, either Tony or S.H.I.E.L.D has been footing the bill for damned near everything since Steve woke up.

"He was Captain America." Tony reminds him mildly. "How do you think? Apparently 95 year old vets get great pensions - you should really check up on that yourself, bee-tee-dubs -" Bucky just stares at him.. "-and S.H.I.E.L.D, got him a chunk of royalties for the comics and crap after they thawed him out. Cap was sitting on quite the chunk of change." Bucky's face turns bemused. "...Anyway, a guy from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s bloodsucking lawyer division want to talk to you about it."

Bucky groans, scruffing a hand down his face as he vanishes into the bathroom to spit and rinse.  
"Look, I don't give a shit about money, ok? I don't need it. Whoever they wanna give it to, that's fine. I ain't fighting some museum for his stuff, though." His jaw sets, but he keeps a lid on himself. He's spent most of the night crying, and he's got no more tears left. "S'all I got left of 'im. They want that, they can kiss my ass, lawyers or not."

"Look, kid, I'm just the messenger." Tony frowns, spreading his hands helplessly. "I don't think he's here to fight with you. Just read Cap's will and settle his affairs. All that jazz."

Bucky blinks. "What will?"

Tony rubs at the bridge of his nose.  
_How the hell should he know?  
_It's before noon and he's tired too, but shit happens.

"Look, just come downstairs, make nice, have some coffee? If he is an ass, you have my permission to chuck him out on the sidewalk."

The two former assassins share a glance.  
Bucky shrugs and Natasha groans, pivoting on her heel and heading back into the bedroom.  
"Give us fifteen minutes." She grumbles, going to scrounge up some real clothes. "And that better be damned good coffee or I make no guarantees I won't shank something."

"You're a peach, Romanoff. See you kids downstairs."


	141. Chapter 141

"-To summarize." The man in the bland black suit and tie is saying, handing him a thick bundle of photocopied pages, stapled in one corner, "Aside from a scholarship fund and a few other charitable contributions, Captain Rogers has left the bulk of his estate to you, sir."

Bucky stares at the pages in front of him. He's in Steve's will…  
When the hell had Steve even made up a will? When had he had _time_… especially in the midst of the mess that had ensued after Steve had found out that James Buchanan Barnes was even alive to _be_ his next of kin?  
...More alarmingly, had he been expecting to die?

He doesn't want to follow that thought through to conclusion... because the obvious answer is _Yeah. And probably soon_.

"Are you .. sure this is right? I mean, it's not like he knew he was going to-..." He pauses and finds that he can't finish that sentence.

The suited man, Agent Anderson, just waits impassively for him to recollect himself.  
"I'm certain, Sergeant Barnes." He taps a finger on the page in front of him, where Bucky's full name is clearly printed. "You are named as his next of kin, and are very specifically listed as inheritor of all of Captain Rogers' property and title."

Bucky steals a glance at Natasha beside him, who is studying the paper and saying nothing, then back to Anderson.  
"I'm- Wait...title?"

"Congratulations Sergeant." There is the faintest flicker of a morbid smile on the stony face as Agent Anderson produces the shield from beside his chair and hands it over. "You've just been promoted to Captain."

His mouth goes dry, staring at the scuffed metal in his lap as the bland man pushes paperwork toward him to sign.  
"I… I ain't Captain America…" Bucky whispers, feeling himself sliding into shock. Natasha's slender hand finds his shoulder and squeezes, dragging him back from the edge. Her eyes are hard on Anderson, but she makes no further move to intervene

Anderson nudges him with a pen and presses it into his metal fingers.  
"You are now, sir."


	142. Chapter 142

"That insensitive dick!" Natasha is still fuming, long after the paperwork has been signed and Agent Anderson has gone. "Just throwing that at him out of the blue! Like it's no big deal!" She paces back and forth, coffee sloshing wildly in her mug, very narrowly avoiding a spill.

"... I should've shanked him." She declares, tossing back the remnants of her drink in one large gulp and slamming her empty mug down on the counter. Tony raises an eyebrow at her.  
"_What_?" She glares at him, irritably. "I should've."

Stark just raises his hands defensively and says nothing, veering off into the kitchen to make another triple espresso or several. He's not getting in between a mama-bear Black Widow and her cub without a hell of a lot more caffeine in his system.

Bucky still sits where he's been, running the beveled edge of the shield pensively through his hands. He's still stunned, trying to process this latest hard left turn.  
A week ago, this thing belonged to Steve. A week ago, Steve was alive…

He took the shield, signed the papers, agreed to everything... because Steve wanted him to.  
He doesn't want the shield. He doesn't want the title. He never wanted any of it.  
All he wants is to have Steve back, holding the shield like he's supposed to be. Leading the team.

Steve was goodness and bravery and light. Steve was noble and heroic.  
Bucky is cunning and danger and darkness. Bucky is broken. He's nobody's hero.

Steve was Captain America.  
Bucky is a pale imitation.

"Fuck…" He drops his arms onto the table, letting his face fall forward into them with a groan. "_Fuck_."

"Bucky…" Natasha's rage abruptly dissolves. She turns to him and sets a gentle hand on his back, privately relieved when he doesn't flinch away.

"I can't do this." He mutters. "I can't live up to what Steve did…" His voice staggers and twists over the name, like he's suddenly lost his footing on unstable ground. "I'm- I'm just some wiseass nobody, with a steady trigger finger…" He thumps his forehead against the table miserably. "I ain't Captain America. I ain't good enough for that."

Tony pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, three fresh mugs carefully balanced in his hands.  
"Cap thought you were." He says matter of factly, handing one of the mugs off to Natasha and setting the second beside Bucky's head.  
"That thing was practically his pacifier." Tony adds, rapping his knuckle against the shield, apparently disappointed when it absorbs the vibration and makes no sound. "Think he'd have handed it off to just anybody?"

"Kid was stupid." Bucky mutters, pointedly ignoring the steaming coffee that's radiating heat against his ear. "Thought a lot more'a me than he should've."

"Ok, Rogers had his faults, but he wasn't stupid." Tony snorts, thumping him in the back of the head with Bucky's copy of the estate paperwork. Natasha smacks his hand on Bucky's behalf, eyes narrowed.  
Tony glances indignantly at her, a picture of wounded dignity, but tosses the bundle down in front of Bucky's nose without comment. "Wrote you a letter in there, as a matter of fact. Anderson showed it to me. It's pretty warm and fuzzy stuff. You should read it."

"A letter… He seriously wrote me a letter in his fucking will?"

"Don't ask me, the guy was sentimental." Tony shrugs. "But it's in there. Page… 23 I think?"

Bucky side-eyes him suspiciously without raising his head for a moment, then slowly straightens up and drags the paperwork toward him.


	143. Chapter 143

**_A/N: I apologize now if this makes you cry. I admit I got a little misty writing it._**

* * *

_Dear Bucky,_

_If you're reading this, I guess that means I finally quit cheating death. Took me long enough, I know. We always figured I wouldn't see 30, and here I am 96…  
__I know we're pretty crap at talking to each other about the stuff that matters… we kind of always were... so I wanted to make sure you knew some things in case I didn't get a chance to say them to your face:_

_You are a good man. You were always, always, always good. I don't care what they made you do, or what you tell yourself you are, that doesn't change anything. You are the best man I ever met. Please remember that._

_You are brave. You always stood up for the little guy, even when he couldn't keep his damned mouth shut and stay out of trouble. You walked into hell, because I asked you to… and I'm sorry I asked, even if I was glad to have you with me. I never told you, but I was scared as hell to go out there alone… _

_You have fought everything life could throw at you and you have won. _

_I'm leaving Captain America in your hands if something happens to me, because I know you'll step up the way you always have, and you'll save lives. I know I can trust you with this._

_People need Captain America. They need that symbol. They need a hero. They don't need me. _

_You are my best friend, my brother, and my hero. You might forget that sometimes, but I never will.  
__Whatever has happened, will happen… please forgive yourself, and please __**LIVE.**_

_Please be happy, Bucky. You deserve it._

_Love,_

_-Steve R._

* * *

Natasha's arm slides around his shoulders before he reaches the end. His eyes are blurred.  
He thought he had no more tears left to give.

He was wrong.


	144. Chapter 144

**_A/N: Sorry for the delay folks. Moving stuff and obsessive tweaking, mostly. Also I knew where I wanted to end up, but I had trouble with the scenes bridging between Steve's letter and there. I think I did ok striking the mood I wanted, so now you get to see the results._**

**_More will be up tomorrow._**

* * *

Clint whistles through his teeth, settling back.  
"So the kid's gonna be the new Cap, huh?"  
Despite the chill in the air, two of Stark Tower's resident assassins are perched on the roof of the tower, watching the first snowfall of the year. It's been a quiet morning so far, and mercifully free of chaos.

"Officially." Natasha nods, tossing her feet across his lap and turning her face up into the iron grey sky. There's something contemplative in her eyes. A small drip of slush trails off the end of her boot, landing wetly on the ground. "Unofficially he's scared out of his mind."

He gives her feet a playful shove, though not quite hard enough to dislodge them. "Hasn't checked out again, though, right?"  
He's jabbed lightly with the toe of her boot in response. It leaves a damp spot on his jacket.

"No." She smiles faintly. "Still with us. We talked about a lot of stuff these last few days. … It helped."

"So you're back to the disgusting sappy lovey-talk and acrobatic sex, huh?"

She rolls her eyes, nudging him in the ribs with her other foot. "If you'd learn to knock-"

"How was I supposed to know you were- … busy?" He shrugs. "Never had to knock before."

She rolls her shoulders in a faint, acknowledging shrug of her own. He isn't wrong.  
They haven't really worried about things like boundaries between themselves in years. They're friends that are more than that, almost halves of a whole. Like siblings but closer.  
Few things are awkward between them anymore, honestly.

In the old days, they'd had to play a couple on undercover missions so many times that nudity has long since lost all strangeness or novelty. Neither of them is particularly interested in or flustered by the other.  
If Clint had wandered in while she was changing or showering she wouldn't have batted an eye. She's walked in on him plenty of times herself. They've had entire conversations around wardrobe changes, clothing flying on and off too fast to worry about what is or isn't visible.

Bucky, however, is not quite so comfortable with 'sharing'. He's fairly private and likes to keep his vulnerable side carefully hidden away most of the time. She can respect that.

"Well you do now, unless you want a show and one _extremely_ pissed off Bucky Barnes chasing you around."

"Eh, kid wouldn't do much but glare me to death." Clint waves the idea away. "All bark, no bite…"

"How many people have you ripped apart with your bare hands again?"

"So I got finesse." He shrugs. "I can knock all you want, but I ain't worried he's gonna come kill me if I don't. Got to know the kid real well when he was still comin' around. Stone-cold-killer ain't somethin' he really does anymore."

"Damn, my secret's out."

To his credit, Clint doesn't flinch. Natasha just tilts her head down over the back of the bench and smirks at Bucky, who's emerging from the stairwell with several steaming mugs in hand.  
"Please tell me that's hot chocolate you're carrying."

"'Course it is. Give me some credit."  
He hands one of the mugs to her as she scoots over to make room for him at the end of the bench, and leans over to offer one to Clint.  
"Extra marshmallows, even."

"My hero." Natasha smirks, taking a sip.

Clint mimes gagging, but he takes the cocoa gratefully anyway.

Bucky just shrugs, draping an arm around Natasha as her head comes to rest against his chest.  
"Sorry, but it's gonna get mushy around here, Barton."

"You guys're givin' me cavities." Clint mutters around his mug.

"That's the marshmallows." Natasha pipes up.

* * *

"Hey… meant to ask." Bucky's voice is suddenly soft and almost timid, toe digging out designs in the greying mush of half-melted snow. "... I ain't gonna be good for much Saturday… can I catch a ride with you two?"

Clint is acutely aware that the calm and the casual snark Bucky's been demonstrating all week are a thin scab stretched over a fresh wound, and chooses careful words accordingly.  
"I think Stark's arranging somethin'... but sure. You're welcome to tag along with us, Tin Man. More the merrier… "

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, a fragile smile emerging on his face.  
"Thanks. ...I sit next to Stark and somebody's bound to get punched."

"You two…" Clint sees a sudden opening to steer the conversation away from sensitive territory, and he takes it. "Christ, you're like 3 year olds."  
He shakes his head.  
"_Mo-o-o-m he's touchin' me! He stole my fancy gizmo shit! I gotta piss!_"

"Don't think 3 year olds say 'shit' or 'piss', Clint." Bucky's eyebrow is climbing, but he's fighting a smile. "My mama would'a washed my mouth out with soap for a week, I came off with somethin' like that."

"Don't make me turn this bench around." Natasha mutters warningly, nestling in closer to Bucky's heat.

"Yes mommy!"  
"Yes mama!"  
They chorus it together, and Clint ends up sliding off the bench into a pile of slush, he's laughing so hard.

Bucky would've been spared, but Natasha pushes him off to follow, now laughing even harder. He yelps but keeps chuckling hoarsely, even as his rear end is soaked in icy slush.

"Idiots." Natasha mutters affectionately. Bucky gently grabs her ankle and hauls her down after, into his lap.


	145. Chapter 145

_**A/N: Fun fact that I forgot to mention during the Steve Dying arc - As soon as I decided to include Sharon Carter in this story, I knew exactly what I was going to do with her. If you go back and re-read everything from her first appearance onward, there are lots of little clues sprinkled through the text. Wording choices, tonal shifts, mentions of sharp-shooting skills, that sort of thing. Kudos if you catch /caught them all.**_

_**Also I don't know why the site posted this as the contents of 146... because that's not what shows up in the doc editor, but here's trying to re-upload it.**_

* * *

Thor arrives amidst the miserable slushy drizzle that is slowly freezing over every available surface. For once, his appearance is marked by nothing more extraordinary than boot-marks in the slop outside the tower doors, and he and his companions enter the building in silence.

"Hey, big guy."  
Tony is, as usual, a flurry of motion. He ricochets past the newcomers, and patting Thor on the shoulder as he goes.  
Stark is showing no signs of coming to rest anytime soon. Thor can't really say it surprises him.  
"The chuckle-heads are up on the roof freezing their asses off, but they'll be back in pretty soon." Tony nods at Jane, who he's met once or twice, and Darcy who he thinks he remembers as the noisy one that Jane mentioned the last time they were in New York.  
"Ladies."

Thor nods in greeting, though Tony is still moving fast, rambling around the room.  
Jane offers a shy smile, taking in the ostentatiously over-the-top decor. Darcy is busily making herself at home.

"How have you fared since-...", The Asgardian trails off, glancing at Stark's back uncertainly. He clearly includes the entire team into his question, but he isn't sure how sensitive the subject is.

Tony shrugs, turning to him, hands fidgeting with some gadget or other. "Same as always. Kicking and screaming until we fall out the other side. Wouldn't say much to Barnes about it though, if I were you. He's still kinda… um..._touchy_ about the whole thing." He lowers his voice. "The kid was there when it happened, which sucks... and he's already got issues… so…."

Thor nods.  
He's only met Bucky once or twice, and both visits were brief, but he remembers the haunted look the man carried, especially right Bucky when began to remember what he'd been forced to do.

He thinks of how it felt to lose Loki - however much bad blood they'd had between them by then… The wrenching feeling, like something had been torn from his insides and flung into a fire, never to be retrieved.  
If he remembers the friendship -nay, the kinship- between the Captain and Barnes… then Bucky must feel something very much like this.  
He will be mindful of his words.

"What of the Captain's lady? Is she still unwell?"

"That's one way of putting it." Bruce ventures from behind him, emerging from a few hours of meditation in the gym. "Still under psychiatric care, and likely to stay there for the foreseeable future."

"Dr. Banner." Thor clasps his hand warmly. "I am sorry that we do not meet again under better circumstance."

"Well, you know how we are. It takes the end of the world for us to get together…"

"Y'know, before I started working for Doc Foster, that whole 'end of the world' thing seemed to happen a whole lot less often…" Darcy interjects around snapping her gum. She falls silent when Jane rounds on her with an incredulous look. "...Just saying…"

"Right…" Bruce shrugs. "Well if I ever figure out why that is, I'll get back to you."

"-God it's crappy out there." Sam shuffles noisily in, kicking slush off of his boots and shaking damp out of his hair. He looks cold and irritable. "Remind me why I moved out of DC for this sh-" He pauses when he notices the three newcomers in Tony's living room and grins sheepishly, swallowing the rant he was about to start in on. "Oh...hey… Thor right? Uh, long time no see."

"Well met, Sam Wilson." Thor offers one massive hand and clasps it securely over Sam's forearm when it is accepted. "It has been a long time. My apologies that I have stayed away. If I could have been of aid to prevent this-"

"You couldn't have done anything the rest of us didn't." Sam shrugs, suddenly feeling a little heavier and just a little older. He shakes it off. "We got blindsided."

Thor nods thoughtfully, and releases his hand.

A small feminine hand is suddenly thrust in Sam's direction as soon as Thor's is out of the way.  
"Hi-I'm-Jane-Foster." The woman attached to it announces in a rush, as if she doesn't know what to say, so she's just spitting out the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

The young brunette behind her rolls her eyes and tosses up her hands at Sam in a '_what're ya gonna do right?_' gesture.

"Sam Wilson." He shakes Jane's hand, recovering quickly from being startled. "Nice to meet you. And thank you." Jane looks absolutely mortified with herself as she lets go of his hand, and retreats to all but hide behind Thor. _Awkward_ doesn't begin to cover her, but she seems very nice.

"Darcy Lewis." The brunette waves at him, but doesn't come forward. "Can I just say you guys need to start getting together for less depressing stuff? This is like _super_ morbid…"

"It's a funeral." Tony raises an eyebrow at her from across the room. "They kinda work like that."


	146. Chapter 146

When the trio of assassins comes inside, noses red and hair and clothing laced with snow and half-frozen slush, none of them seem at all surprised by their guests. It's very hard to enter any building where the three of them are without being noticed, even when one is trying to be stealthy. Just walking in the front door is something like waving a huge sign, complete with neon arrows and a marching band, announcing your presence.

Bucky quietly offers Thor a handshake after shucking his jacket, and addresses Jane as 'Ma'am' - absolutely dripping with charm.  
Darcy raises an eyebrow at this, but flirts shamelessly when he turns to introduce himself to her, stopping only when Natasha deems that this has gone on long enough and sends her a look that clearly promises messy and unpleasant consequences if she doesn't back off.  
Darcy takes the hint.

* * *

Jane and Natasha have met before, and spend a good deal of the afternoon talking together about something in hushed tones in one corner of the room. They sit quietly conversing and occasionally glancing at their respective mates, whispering back and forth as if they were sharing the most intimate of secrets.  
Thor looks uncomfortable, but Bucky just rolls his eyes.

"They're talking about science stuff." He whispers conspiratorially, leaning over to Thor and shaking his head. "I just heard 'particle acceleration', so probably physics. Nat just likes to screw with people's heads and pretend she's not crazy smart."

"She's a pro." Clint nods amicably. "The shit I've heard her come off with…"

They all glance over at the two women.  
Jane is talking and gesturing excitedly and Natasha appears to be soaking it all up thoughtfully. She interjects with something and Jane honestly squeals with delight. She draws out a notebook and starts scribbling down notes, while Natasha leans over her shoulder.  
"I hadn't even thought of that!" comes drifting out of the corner, "And if I shift the variable to account for-"

Thor smiles fondly at her. There's something sad tinged around the edges of it. Like he knows this is fleeting. That one day, all too soon, he will have to say goodbye to Jane too. To her enthusiasm, her joy, her curiosity, her warmth…. And that this is unthinkable and unwelcome in his heart.

Bucky can relate.


	147. Chapter 147

They make a slow, solemn procession when Saturday morning finally rolls around. Natasha leads, arm securely locked around Bucky's shoulders, with Clint just behind them. The two assassins move like a strike team around him as Bucky just walks like a man condemned. Clint and Natasha keep their eyes on their surroundings, studying everything for potential threats. Bucky's eyes are fixed forward, one foot in front of the other, back rigidly straight. He barely sees the sidewalk, let alone the car that's turning the corner just a hair too slowly, and might or might not be dangerous; the man walking his dog across the street that glances over at them curiously.  
He's looking at nothing, but he turns to Natasha with the ghost of a fragile smile that doesn't remotely reach his eyes when she squeezes his arm.  
_Still here g_oes unspoken.

Sam heads up the next small group of stragglers, with Tony slogging along just behind him. Tony looks exhausted and miserable, and Sam would lay good money, glancing back at him, that he hasn't slept worth a damn all week. He makes a mental note to drag Stark in for an appointment or several after the dust has settled a bit.

Bruce plods through the slush in silence, half listening to Jane and Thor over his shoulder, murmuring to each other as they walk. He catches just enough to recognize Steve's name and something about the attack on New York.  
He tunes them out and focuses on the cold flakes that are landing on his nose instead, because remembering is risky when there's this much emotion in the air, and he has to be careful.  
Darcy brings up the rear in uncharacteristic silence.

The other attendees, particularly those who don't live at the tower, will meet them there.

* * *

Clint, Natasha, Bucky, and Sam all pile into one small black sedan, kicking slop off of their shoes at the doors in turn. As Natasha had quietly requested (demanded), there's just enough room for the four of them. The others will ride in another, larger car.

Bucky _probably_ wouldn't really punch Stark, and Tony's _probably _not stupid enough to try and start a fight with him at this point... but everyone's emotions are running high and the two of them just have too much of a tendency to set each other off. Separation is probably best.

"How ya holding up so far, Robocop?" Clint asks under his breath as he wedges into the back seat beside him and fumbles for a seat belt that's stubbornly hidden in the fold of the seats. Sam is up front with Natasha.

Bucky pauses for what is probably much too long, making sure his voice comes out steady before he answers.  
"Fine... 'long as I don't think about anything…" A soft, deep breath. "Once people start talkin' though, all bets are off…"

Clint nods, setting a hand on his shoulder for half a moment.  
"If you need to duck out for a minute, or anything... Just do it. Whatever you gotta do. Anybody wants to bug you about it has to go through us to do it."

From the front seat, Natasha meets his eyes in the rearview mirror and offers a tiny smile. Sam nods. They three of them have clearly already discussed this.

Bucky's chest tightens gratefully.  
"I ever tell you guys you're the best?"

"Like you have to tell us?" Sam is leaning around the seat to look back at him. His smirk is teasing, but there's warmth behind it.

"You better quit soundin' so much like the little punk or I'm gonna be bawlin' before we even get there." Bucky mutters gruffly, ducking his head. He knows his voice is already starting to sound thin.

Sam nods and gently bumps a fist into Bucky's knee, then turns around to face front again.

"Just remember, you got nobody to impress, kid." Clint instructs, settling back into the small corner of the car that's not already full of former HYDRA assassin. "This thing's private for a reason."

"That's good, 'cause I'm gonna make a damn fool of myself, guaranteed…"

Bucky's not stupid, and he's always _always_ been a realist. Today is going to be messy.  
There's absolutely no way he won't come unglued as soon as he sees the casket - no way he won't be sobbing like an idiot during the multiple speeches that will surely be made. If he can still walk under his own power when it's all over, he'll be impressed with himself.

"Nothing we haven't seen before." Natasha's lightly teasing voice settles over him from the front seat. "I brought tissues."

"Knew I loved you for a reason."

* * *

_**A/N: Next update starts the funeral. Get your hankies and kleenexes ready. **_

_**(I regret nothing.)**_


	148. Chapter 148

The funeral is, unsurprisingly, held in Brooklyn.

The VFW hall is quiet and largely deserted outside, but inside it is decorated in red, white and blue (though mostly white) and half smothered in flowers. It's a small space, and dimly lit, but cozy in a way that reminds Bucky of a cramped rundown little apartment 80 years ago. He hears the plumbing buzz, loud and erratic, beneath the creaky floor, and scuffs his toe against the ratty water-stained carpeting underfoot. The effect is, oddly, a little like coming home - and he makes a mental note to thank Pepper for that later.

Maria Hill is waiting for them when they arrive, serenely leaned against a doorway in a neat black suit. She nods curtly in greeting, but says nothing to any of them and gives no indication that she plans to mingle. None of them are particularly surprised. Hill has always been private, but it's no secret she liked Steve. Even respected him. She keeps her grief to herself.

Pepper is flitting around making last minute arrangements. She pauses long enough to give Tony a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek when she spots him, before vanishing into another room to oversee a sound-check. He stares after her for a few moments, like he very much wants to follow in her wake, before contenting himself with yammering quietly to Bruce.

Bruce, for his part, listens indulgently, nodding here and there. He's well aware Tony's brain is not connected to his mouth at the moment, so he lets his eyes wander the hall while he listens with half an ear.

Bucky's eyes travel, unbidden, to the front of the main room… and there it is. The long dark-wood casket, surrounded by photos and vibrant wreaths. Unsurprisingly, it is closed, concealing Steve... hiding the too pale skin and stained hair-  
Bucky's breath catches and his insides cinch tight. He has to look away or he'll be sick on the spot.

Natasha squeezes his hand. Her eyes glisten when he looks over at her, but she's steady and stable, a rock to anchor to. He thinks he has never loved her more than he does right now.

* * *

A couple of S.H.I.E.L.D agents that he doesn't really know and some of the Commandos' children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are also in attendance. He nods weakly to them in greeting, and even manages to make some half-assed smalltalk with Dugan's great grandson, who's only about 6 years younger than he was when he fell.

The kid could pass for Dum Dum, easy. He's just as big, just as irrepressibly jovial, just as as quick with a dirty joke, and even wears the same ridiculous bushy moustache. It's jarring, but surprisingly comforting at the same time. Bucky almost cracks a smile, in spite of himself.

"I only met him the once or twice." The kid, Tommy, is telling him, his gaze drifting over into the main room, where none of them have ventured quite yet. Bucky because he's still dreading it, the others because they're busy chatting amongst themselves. "But grandad and great-grandad wouldn't shut up about him. All I ever heard about at Christmas, let me tell you."  
The twinkling blue eyes turn abruptly a little shy as they return to Bucky's face.  
"Well, they talked about all of you guys, really." He seems to hesitate for just a moment. "...I know we haven't really met before, and it's a bad time... but I just wanted to let you know I'm real honored to meet you, Mr. Barnes. To hear great-grandad tell it, you were the best guy out there."

"Dum Dum was soft in the head." Bucky scoffs, feeling self-conscious.  
He's not sure how much this kid knows about what happened after he 'died', and he's not much in the mood for sharing; even if he's less thrilled with the rose-tinted picture this kid must have of him.  
Dugan had always had a bit of a soft spot for James Barnes, especially after the isolation ward and Bucky's near-death there. Between that and Dum Dum's big mouth, he must've made Sergeant Bucky Barnes out to be some kind of crazy hero.

"Oh probably." Tommy nods easily. "He was a crazy old bastard to the end. But hell, every one of those guys thought the world of you. Whenever the Commandos used to tell stories, they couldn't say enough about the 'Boys from Brooklyn' they lost out there…" Tommy shrugs. " They can't all be nuts, I figure... Great-grandad not withstanding."  
His eyes flicker briefly back toward the casket. "And if the Cap agreed with 'em, who'm I to argue?"

Bucky can't take this blind praise. He has to set the story straight or he's going to hate himself for days.  
"Look, kid, the thing is-"

"I know what happened after you went MIA, Sgt. Barnes." Tommy cuts him off with a hand held up between them. "I saw the files, and the video of your hearing. ...Hell, _everybody's _seen them. They've been all over the internet for ages." Bucky watches him warily until Tommy claps his extended hand briefly on Bucky's shoulder, and offers him a smile that's all Dugan. "-And I still agree with Great-grandad."  
There's a gentle shake of the shoulder -a gesture of solidarity- and then the kid is gone; off to exchange greetings with Morita's daughter and her kids.

Bucky can only stare after him in stunned silence.


	149. Chapter 149

"Making new friends?" Natasha reappears at his elbow with a couple of miniature bottles of water she managed to track down somewhere. She offers him one.

"Somethin' like that." He answers softly, taking the bottle without even looking at it.

Natasha reaches up to kiss his cheek, dragging his face toward her. There's the faintest hint of laughter in her eyes.  
"I hate to say I told you so, but… I told you so."

"You heard all that, huh?"

"Every word." She kisses his nose and releases him. "_Now_ do you believe us?"  
She doesn't have to specify what about.

The Winter Soldier is in the past, but it will never be far enough from him to vanish completely. It doesn't matter how many times or how many people tell him it wasn't his fault. The guilt is stained into his bones and he'll never completely scrub it away.

"I'll be a horrible, smart-ass bastard to the day I die, but hell if I can figure out why people like me for it." He shrugs, sliding an arm around her waist. Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Because you're sweet and selfless and adorable? Because it's the cutest thing I've ever seen when you get all protective over grown men? Because you're actually pretty smart, even if you act like a moron sometimes?"

"I'm a jackass, but keep talkin'."  
He earns a swat to the arm for that, but the tension he's been carrying lessens some, and Natasha flashes him that soft intimate smile that she saves just for him, and that makes things almost alright.

"Idiot." She mutters, butting her head into his arm.

"Hey, you know you like 'em big and dumb."

He's almost thinking that he can get through today without making a complete weepy jackass of himself. That he might be ok.  
Almost.

That is, until Pepper appears abruptly in the doorway and announces that they'll be ready to begin in a few minutes, and would everyone please come in and take a seat?  
That's when reality abruptly rears its ugly head and knocks him straight in the teeth.

* * *

Bucky tries to make it no big deal - it's just walking into the next room, any five year old could do it... but he stops dead in the doorway and his eyes stray to the front of the room, and it is suddenly a very _very_ big deal. He almost can't make himself cross the threshold, nearly turns and blindly runs for the safety of the car - but Natasha is leading him by the hand and Clint is crowded up behind him and with a huff of distressed breath, he's over.

He feels a discrete squeeze on his hand as Natasha tugs him forward. Her eyes dart to his face and though he can see they're glittering with moisture again, they steady him.  
Whatever he did to deserve this woman, he will never be grateful enough.

They take seats in the front row, though Bucky would rather be anywhere but this room, and they wait. Behind them -because he's carefully watching everything but the long wooden box that's only a few feet away now- he notices Pepper sliding into a seat beside Tony, who immediately latches onto her like a lamprey. They're twined together in moments, two vines twisting around each other to make a stronger whole. It's somehow chaste and gentle, despite tangled feet and touching knees and it stirs something in Bucky's insides. They're kind of beautiful together, in a strange, unexpected way... even if it does involve Stark.

Natasha's head comes to rest on his shoulder. He does some twining of his own.


	150. Chapter 150

Sam has told him, over and over all week, that he doesn't have to stand up if he doesn't want to. That he has nothing to prove, and if he can't do it, it's ok to just sit tight.

Sam means well, he's sure, but that doesn't change the fact that yes, he does have to do this. Not for the people in this room. He's sure they're all good folks, but they're not what he's here for.

This is for Steve.  
For himself.

He's got to say goodbye.

* * *

"If Sergeant Barnes would like to say a few words…?"

There's a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent at the battered wood podium up front, functioning as a sort of master of ceremonies. He's retired now, after the mess that was Project Insight cost him half the skin on his body and the vision in his left eye. He leans heavily on a cane, though he looks like he could still lay out anyone who wanted to try him with it. Once a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, always a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, it seems.  
One side of his face is heavily scarred from the explosion of the Triskelion, and the ridged and shiny skin disappears beneath his collar. His remaining eye, dark brown and sympathetic, is focused on Bucky, waiting for a response.

Bucky stands up, heart hammering in his chest, and he walks. The few steps feel like miles, but he holds himself like a soldier, and he marches on.

His steps slow to a halting stumble when he reaches the podium, as he stares down at the sealed wooden box that contains what's left of his best friend.  
He feels something fracturing inside of him. His voice dries up for a moment, and he lets himself skim a restless hand over the lid as he stands there, catching his breath. For just an instant, he imagines he could fling it away and Steve would be in there just looking up at him, whole and alive, and this would all be just a horrible dream. He lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that he will wake up in the next blink and none of this will have happened.  
The instant passes, in blood-soaked memories too real, too visceral, to be anything but the truth.  
He forces himself to turn away, finds Natasha's eyes and holds them. She gives him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.  
_You can do this _her eyes promise.

He draws in a breath.  
Holds it.  
Lets it out.

He can do this.

"Everybody knows about Captain America." Bucky starts, surprised at how steady he sounds, how little his voice cracks and tears in his throat. "Most of us also knew Steve Rogers. I… I knew 'im my whole life. Everything I could remember, he was there."  
A long slow deep breath.  
"Steve was always the selfless one. The one who put everybody else first. No matter what. Didn't have a selfish bone in his stupid little body. Wasn't an act or anything with him, it's just how he was."

He glances at the box behind him and his blood turns to ice. He snaps his attention back to Natasha and keeps it there. She's all he can focus on without screaming.

"I met the little squirt when he was 6 years old an' nothing but grit and stubborn shoved into one scrawny little kid. He was takin' a fist right in the face 'cause nobody else would stand up, and this kid never learned how to walk away from a fight."  
He clenches his fist against his side, focusing on the feeling of his fingers curling around his palm, knowing his knuckles are going white, and it helps to ground him.  
"Steve Rogers lived for everybody else his whole life. First it was his mama... then it was me... then it was the whole freakin' world…" He swallows down the bile that's rising in his throat and soldiers on. "He was honest an' fearless... and he cared. God, he _cared_ about everybody… didn't matter who, he wanted th' best for 'em."

He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his breath stutter, and makes himself open them again. He will get through this. He _will_ do this properly.

"Steve died the same way he lived. Lookin' out for everybody but himself." The words pour out of him without his consent and without filter. He's beyond caring. "He wanted to save the very person that shot 'im, and he was more worried about us than he was about dyin'..." Natasha winces, but her eyes don't leave his face. She looks as fragile as he feels.  
"That kid saw the best in everybody he ever met… even when nobody else thought they were worth a damn. "

He turns to the casket and makes himself look at it. Makes himself accept that this is real. That he's really here. Refuses himself the comfort of collapsing or blacking out.  
The echoes of Peggy's funeral aren't lost on him. He can't help it if Steve knew how to do things with style...  
This needs to be said. Now. Here. He has to do this _right_.

Bucky takes a deep breath, and lets it out.  
"Steve, I ain't ever gonna be what I shoulda been. What you always thought I was. But I am sure as hell gonna _try._" He sets his right, flesh, hand over the lid of Steve's coffin and lets it rest there. He hates the solid wood under his fingers.  
"You were always the good one. You were the best." He can feel himself cracking, but he's so nearly there. It's almost over. One last push for Steve, and then he can break.  
He makes himself stand there until the words are out.  
"You were my brother, kid, and I loved ya…" He almost chokes on his own voice, but pushes it out, a near silent rush of breath.  
"Goodbye Steve."

The tears start then, beyond his control, and he's well aware that he's crumbling on his feet. He turns away, swiping his arm across his face, not caring who sees him coming apart.

The next thing he remembers is slowly sinking down in his chair, disoriented and feeling more than a little shell shocked. Natasha's fingers lacing through his. Clint's hand is on his shoulder. He focuses on breathing.

When Thor approaches the podium to speak, he catches very little of what is said. The god of thunder could be reciting poetry, or hell a shopping list. He'd never know the difference.

He's about ready to get up and take that breather the others offered him earlier, before he hyperventilates in front of everyone, when Sam stands up from the row just behind him and heads for the podium.

Bucky keeps his seat.


	151. Chapter 151

"I didn't know Steve for all that long… not like some of you did." Sam's eyes skim the small crowd, then drop down to his hands, fidgeting slightly on the podium. Bucky can't help but see echoes of the VA meetings in his manner. Sam knows how to talk to people in pain. Knows how to bring them back to safety. This is what Sam does best.

"I didn't grow up with him... Only helped save the world with him once or twice. I was playing catchup for the brief couple of years that we were friends." Sam's eyes come up again. "But I saw what made him great. With Steve Rogers it was impossible to miss. Like others have said, Steve _cared_ about everyone. He genuinely wanted to do the right thing, no matter how much it cost him, and he never stopped trying, never stopped fighting for what he believed in. Steve made everyone around him better, because they wanted to measure up. I know I did."  
Sam dips his head for a moment.

"As some of you know, but most of you don't, this isn't first time I've had to say goodbye to a good friend and wonderful human being. Steve, look Riley up when you get there. You'd like him." For the first time, Bucky notices the edge of dog-tags peeking out from under Sam's jacket, and he can guess in an instant whose they are.  
"As hard as it is to lose someone you look up to, somebody you're that close to… we move on and we keep that legacy alive for them. We don't forget." His voice is warm and soothing. Calming. The fraying nerves that have to be buried under it don't show. "We never forget. But we live, for them, because of them. And we ask ourselves what they'd think if they could see us now."

Bucky notices Sam's eyes have fallen on him, holding there for a few moments.  
"For Riley, I became a councilor. To help guys like us come home. If he had come back, I think he'd have approved. Riley was a caregiver to the bone, and he always wanted to give something back.  
For Steve, I'm an Avenger. I'm going to go out there and I'm going to protect people the best way I know how, because I know that's what Steve did. It what he'd be doing now if he could. Steve took care of people. He looked out for everybody, and there was no fiercer defender of the people that he loved.  
Steve was a protector, a fighter. Steve looked out for the little guys. And now we're gonna do that for him."  
Sam turns and skims his fingers over the wood behind him. He looks deceptively put together, but there's a tiny telltale hitch in his voice when he speaks.  
"Rest in peace, buddy."

As Sam slides quietly back into his seat, Bucky notices calloused fingers coming up around the worn, scratched dog-tags around Sam's neck. If he hears the faint sniffle, notices the hand reaching up to subtly scrub away unwanted tears, Bucky says nothing.  
It's the first time he's seen a crack in Sam's armor, and it scares him a little. He pushes his eyes forward again.

The other Avengers stand in turn and make their goodbyes at the podium. Bucky listens, but barely hears them.

_Steve was-_

_Steve had-_

_Steve did-_

_-now that he's gone._

_-will be missed._

They're such tiny words. Too small to have the weight that they do. All these tiny words which add up to the reality that his best friend is dead. The thought ricochets around his skull for a while, drowning everything else out.

He watches Natasha stand up, mask dropping over her face like a physical thing. Hiding her under a facade of calm. The roar dies down.  
He has to hear what she will say. Has to support her, as she has supported him. He can't fade into static again. Not now. Not when she needs him here.

Natasha's eyes glitter, but her face is an unreadable blank.  
"There's nothing I can really say that hasn't already been said, except: I'm sorry." Her gaze flits around the room, settling on nothing. " I'm sorry I wasn't faster, smarter, stronger, and I'm sorry that it cost us one of the best people I've ever known."

She glances at the casket, and her expression doesn't flicker.  
"I'm sorry, Steve. I really am. I trusted you. You were a good friend."

And then she's back beside him, nothing more to say. He slips his arm around her shoulder, feels her head come to rest against him, feels the thrum of tension rolling over her like electricity, and presses his lips against her ear.  
"Не свои извинения за ошибки, которые вы не делали, Королевы Пауков..."

She squeezes his hand, but says nothing. He could push this, but there's no point. She will talk to him when she's ready.

He lets it go.

* * *

Не свои извинения за ошибки, которые вы не делали, Королевы Пауков. = Don't apologize for mistakes you didn't make, Spider Queen.


End file.
